Hier les champs taient seulement gris avec la neige disperse, et maintenant le plus long herbe-laisse merge 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'charpe blanche de la brume obscurcit le bois fonc et le ciel orange mat; Mais elle attend, je savent, impatient et froid, des sanglots de moiti luttant dans son soupir givr.
Pourquoi elle venir tellement promptement, quand elle doit savoir qu'elle est seulement la plus proche l'adieu invitable; La colline est raide, sur la neige que mes tapes sont lentes pourquoi elle viennent, quand elle sait ce que je dois dire ?
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