Hier les champs étaient seulement gris avec la neige dispersée, et maintenant le plus long herbe-laisse émerge à peine; Pourtant ses marchepieds profonds marquent la neige, et continuent vers les pins au bord blanc des collines.
Je ne peux pas la voir, puisque l'écharpe blanche de la brume obscurcit le bois foncé et le ciel orange mat; Mais elle attend, je savent, impatient et froid, des sanglots de moitié luttant dans son soupir givré.
Pourquoi elle venir tellement promptement, quand elle doit savoir qu'elle est seulement la plus proche à l'adieu inévitable; La colline est raide, sur la neige que mes étapes sont lentes pourquoi elle viennent, quand elle sait ce que je dois dire ?
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