Nigh to the window-sill the snow
Had drifted when 'twas time to go,
And, lifted shoulder-high, we bore
The master from Starkacre door.

His well-beloved fields in snow
Were shrouded when 'twas time to go,
And in the shieling snug and warm
His flock was sheltered from the storm.

Stormbound and blinded by the snow
Nor sheep nor pasture saw him go,
Although his whole heart's hopes and fears
Had been bound up in them for years.
Indifferent to the driving snow
He went when it was time to go,
And yet it's hard to think that he
Left flock and field indifferently.