“Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum.”

—Ps. ci

   Wintertime nighs;

But my bereavement-pain

It cannot bring again:

   Twice no one dies.

   Flower-petals flee;

But, since it once hath been,

No more that severing scene

   Can harrow me.

   Birds faint in dread:

I shall not lose old strength

In the lone frost’s black length:

   Strength long since fled!

   Leaves freeze to dun;

But friends can not turn cold

This season as of old

   For him with none.

   Tempests may scath;

But love can not make smart

Again this year his heart

   Who no heart hath.

   Black is night’s cope;

But death will not appal

One who, past doubtings all,

   Waits in unhope.