by Edith Nesbit
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 sun; There is no spring this bitter year, And summer's dreams are done. The snakes that lie about my heart Are in my 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 suffice To waken them once more; Nor could the sunshine of your eyes A ruined spring restore. But ah - your lips! You know the rest: The snows are summer rain, My eyes are wet, and in my breast The snakes' fangs meet again.