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The Farm Womans Winter


If seasons all were summers, 
And leaves would never fall, 
And hopping casement-comers 
Were foodless not at all, 
And fragile folk might be here 
That white winds bid depart; 
Then one I used to see here 
Would warm my wasted heart!


One frail, who, bravely tilling 
Long hours in gripping gusts, 
Was mastered by their chilling, 
And now his ploughshare rusts.
So savage winter catches The breath of limber things, And what I love he snatches, And what I love not, brings.

by Thomas Hardy
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