Explain, what I cannot explain,
How your look, at our very last meeting,
Is photographed firm on my brain.
Without you, I'm twenty years older;
And yet I'm glad you're away.
For each day it grows darker and colder,
The sky is a smoky brown-grey.
Althea—I am weary of winter
Without you! The fogs never clear.
My missive I send to the printer