Oh, field of winter, aching in the wind,
Thy sheep are gone, and through the falling snow
There creeps the mole, with ears that listen low,
And birds that flit through hedge with sight so blind.
The dry leaves whistle on the churchyard wall,
And nearer now the fox is heard to call.
Oh, how the fields of winter stand forlorn,
The stars hang frozen in the icebound air,
And like the fields, I too am old and worn,
The heavy frost has taken every care.
The children to their mothers run with joy,
But I am grown as still as is a toy.