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.