The Seasons Of Her Year Thomas Hardy

I

Winter is white on turf and tree,
        And birds are fled;
But summer songsters pipe to me,
        And petals spread,
For what I dreamt of secretly
        His lips have said!

II

O 'tis a fine May morn, they say,
        And blooms have blown;
But wild and wintry is my day,
        My birds make moan;
For he who vowed leaves me to pay
        Alone—alone!