Come when the three years end, oh, my dear soul,
It's bitter, wanting you." The lonely nights took toll,
Putting a sadness where the beauty was,
Taking a lustre from the hair; the days
Saw each a sadder image in the glass.
And when December came, fouling the ways,
And ashless beech-logs made a Christmas blaze,
Some talk of Michael came; a rumour ran,
Someone had called him "wild" to some returning mail,
Who, travelling through that cattle-range, had heard