Oh, the wind is blowing so slow,
So slow across the barren field
Where once the summer flew by:
Corn sheaves, green leaves, shimmering ever on
In the bright brassy sunlight
And the pale blue sky;
Now the short jagged stumps are left.
March turned her cheek
And let spring pass her.
Flowers are iced with snow,
And in the gravel there is an aster
Like a final shooting star
Within the coldness of comets' tears.
Oh winter wind, run away.
Come back again in another year.
