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The Kiss

The snow is white on wood and wold,

The wind is in the firs,

So dead my heart is with the cold,

No pulse within it stirs,

Even to see your face, my dear,

Your face that was my sun;

There is no spring this bitter year,

And summer's dreams are done.

The snakes that lie about my

Are in their wintry sleep;

Their fangs no more deal sting and smart,

No more they curl and creep.

Love with the summer ceased to be;

The frost is firm and fast.

God keep the summer far from me,

And let the snakes' sleep last!

Touch of your hand could not

To waken them once more;

Nor could the sunshine of your eyesA ruined spring restore.

But ah-your lips!

You know the rest:

The snows are summer rain,

My eyes are wet, and in my

The snakes' fangs meet again.

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Edith Nesbit

Edith Nesbit (married name Edith Bland; 15 August 1858 – 4 May 1924) was an English author and poet; she published her books for children under …
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