The Saddle—where that August noon we basked
Above the gorse in the quivering golden glow—
Was a smother of white mist and driving snow
That, stinging, blinding and bewildering, tasked
My utmost powers as in the wan twilight
I crossed the ridge this afternoon alone,
Plunging thigh-deep through drifts of whirling white
In a wind that seemed to strip me to the bone.

Yet as I struggled through the drifts I knew
No sharp regret for golden days gone by;
For in my heart was the blaze and scent and bloom
Of unforgotten summers, as I thought of you
And the happy babes even then awaiting me
In the golden hearthlight of our little room.