I have seen in the evening
The greyish-violet clouds
Roll wearily back from northward
To the place whence first they came.
One or two orange lamps burnt low
Against deep purple hills —
The wind was hurrying, bundling them together,
The pines awoke to sing
The song of the snow buzzing and screaming
On its one string.
I have seen within my heart
Crocuses, purple and gold,
Drop cold and dull and colourless
Beneath the snow.
One or two orange lamps burnt low,
Vain memories.
The wind has driven me too many winters,
My songs are snowflakes whirling about my breast.
I will wrap my frozen and bitter songs about me,
In one grey drift, and rest.