When the fine snow with its sparkling grains
silts over our threshold, I hear your footsteps
wander and stop in the neighbouring room.
You withdraw the bright and fragile mirror from
its place by the window, and your bunch of
keys dances along the drawer of the beech-wood
wardrobe.
I listen, and you are poking the fire and
arousing the embers; and you are arranging about
the silent walls the silence of the chairs.
You remove the fleeting dust from the workbasket
with the narrow feet, and your ring strikes and
resounds on the quivering sides of a wine-glass.
And I am more happy than ever this evening at
your tender presence, and at feeling you near and
not seeing you and ever hearing you.