The rude and
wild winter weather
contrives to
keep us not together;it troubles all these Yorkshire hills,
it breaks and batters, freezes, kills.
Cloud-shadows pass across the heath,
the wind bites hard with bitter teeth.
The gorse-grass shivers in the cold,
the crowberry cowers upon the mould.
At noontide, a tattered raven croaks
He knows not why the maiden weeps,
but with the trees a vigil he keeps.
