When all the coloured things have gone away
And a mist of cloud and snow descends,
And it seems the world is at an end,
Do not let yourself dismay.

It does not have the green of spring
It does not have summer’s bowers
And longer are the owl-time hours
Than the sunlit ones to which we cling.

The trees all bones, without one leaf,
Stand mere silhouettes against the grey
Gloom of the day’s weak rays, which
Cast shadows cold and deep.

The heart is not all warm and well –
The soul writhes and aches within;
And winter’s dark vast vacuum brings
Such comfort, one can’t tell.

As rivers seek the sea,
  Much more deep than they,
So my soul seeks thee
  Far away:
As running rivers moan
On their course alone
  So I moan
  Left alone.

As the delicate rose
  To the sun's sweet strength
Doth herself unclose,
  Breadth and length:
So spreads my heart to thee
Unveiled utterly,
  I to thee
  Utterly.

As morning dew exhales
  Sunwards pure and free,
So my spirit fails
  After thee:
As dew leaves not a trace
On the green earth's face;
  I, no trace
  On thy face.

Its goal the river knows,
  Dewdrops find a way,
Sunlight cheers the rose
  In her day:
Shall I, lone sorrow past,
Find thee at the last?
  Sorrow past,
  Thee at last?