SHE is WINTER

A WINTER's TALE by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)

Yesterday, the fields were only grey with scattered snow

And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge:

Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go

On towards the pines at the hills' white verge.....

I cannot see her, since the mist's white scarf

Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;

But she's waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half

Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.....

Why does she come so promptly, when she must know

                                        
That she's only the nearer to the inevitable farewell;

The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow.....

Why does she come......

                  When she knows.......

                                                                 What I have to tell?

Photographs 2025   D.H. Lawrence was an English novelist, wrote on travel,  plays, painter  amongst other creative endeavors. He died of tuberculosis, on March 30 1930...there were over 60,000 deaths in  France, and over 50,000 in the UK, that same year.