Between the snowdrifts and the sea,
Seeking, at last shall I find thee?
O friend of half-forgotten days,
Are these indeed the very ways
Thou tookest when thou wentst from me?
It must be that I touch thy hands
Today in these most empty lands:
Else how shall I—O Found in dreams—
Have any joy of all these streams
That strive to bust their iron bands?
—Unless it chance my wandering
Before the night my tired feet bring
Over the unswept threshold of
Thy hidden house, how may I, Love,
Be glad because of this year’s Spring?
And yet, a little thing it is
To bear quite patiently with this;
Seeing that I tonight shall find
Forgetfulness of snow and wind
In the warm tremor of thy kiss.
