How large that thrush looks on the bare thorn—tree!
A swarm of such, three little months ago,
Had hidden in the leaves and let none know
Save by the outburst of their minstrelsy.
A white flake here and there—a snow—lily
Of last night’s frost—our naked flower—beds hold;
And for a rose—flower on the darkling mould
The hungry redbreast gleams. No bloom, no bee.
The current shudders to its ice—bound sedge;
Nipped in their bath, the stark reeds one by one
Flash each its clinging diamond in the sun:
'Neath winds which for this winter’s sovereign pledge
Shall curb great king—masts to the ocean’s edge
And leave memorial forest—kings o’erthrown.

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