Words On The Window-Pane

DID she in summer write it, or in spring,
 Or with this wail of autumn at her ears,
 Or in some winter left among old years
  Scratched it through tettered cark? A certain thing
  That round her heart the frost was hardening,
 Not to be thawed of tears, which on this pane
 Channelled the rime, perchance, in fevered rain,
  For false man's sake and love's most bitter sting.
  Howbeit, between this last word and the next
 Unwritten, subtly seasoned was the smart,
 And here at least the grace to weep: if she,
  Rather, midway in her disconsolate text,
Rebelled not, loathing from the trodden heart  
That thing which she had found man's love to be.