I.

There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 240 The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; The river was dumb and could not speak, For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun, A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; 245 Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea.