Thomas Hardy — The Seasons Of Her Year

I Winter is white on turf and tree,         And birds are fled; But summer songsters pipe to me,         And petals spread, For what I dreamt of secretly         His lips have said! II O 'tis a fine May morn, they say,         And blooms have blown; But wild and wintry is my day,         My birds make moan; For he who vowed leaves me to pay         Alone—alone!