I

Winter is white on turf and tree,

   And birds are fled;

But summer songsters pipe to me,

   And petals spread,

For what I dreamt of secretly

   His lips have said!

II

O ’tis a fine May morn, they say,

   And blooms have blown;

But wild and wintry is my day,

   My birds make moan;

For he who vowed leaves me to pay

   Alone—alone!