The Return Home, 78

I left you at first in July at the warmest,
In January now I find you once more;
In the midst of the heat you then were complaining,
And now you are cool’d, and cold to the core.

I shall soon leave again, and when next I’m returning
Neither warm shall I find you, nor yet quite cold;
I shall walk o’er your grave with silent composure,
While my own heart within me is wretched and old.