Out of the clear how shrewdly blows
The North-West wind!
Free as he goes, how brave he shows,
The sun seems blind!
The shadows fleet upon the grass
Where the kestrels hover —
What leagues of sorrow they must pass
Before they shroud my lover!
Half-naked now, confronting cold,
The tall trees shiver,
Each with its pool of pallid gold
Draining down to the river.
‘ Tis now when fret of winter wet
Warns the year she is old,
And she casts robe and coronet,
That I would loosen hold.