The snow will dust the roadway,
And load the roofs still more.
I'll stretch my legs a little:
You're there outside the door.
Autumn, not winter coat,
Hat-none, galoshes-none.
You struggle with
Out there all on your own.
Far, far into the
Fences and trees withdraw.
You stand there on the corner,
Under the falling snow.
The water trickles down
The kerchief that you
Into your sleeves, while
Shine sparkling in your hair.
And now illumined byA single strand of
Are features, kerchief,
And coat of autumn cut.
There's wet snow on your
And in your eyes, distress,
And your external
Is all, all of apiece.
As if an iron
With truly consummate art,
Dipped into antimony,
Had scribed you on my heart.
Those modest, humble
Are in it now to stay,
And if the world's cruel-hearted,
That's merely by the way.
And therefore it is doubled,
All this night in snow;
To draw frontiers between
Is more than I can do.
But who are we and whence,
If, of those years gone by,
Scandal alone
And we have ceased to be.
