As I walked through the lamplit gardens,
On the thin white crust of snow,
So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune,
So clearly were my eyes
On the face of this grief which has come to me,
That I did not notice the beautiful pale
Of lamplight on the snow;
Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees;
And yet these things were there,
And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there,
As I have seen them so often before;
As they will be so often
Long after my grief is forgotten.
And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me.
