The fir trees taper into twigs and wear <br />The rich blue green of summer all the year, <br />Softening the roughest tempest almost calm <br />And offering shelter ever still and warm <br />To the small path that towels underneath, <br />Where loudest winds--almost as summer's breath-- <br />Scarce fan the weed that lingers green below <br />When others out of doors are lost in frost and snow. <br />And sweet the music trembles on the ear <br />As the wind suthers through each tiny spear, <br />Makeshifts for leaves; and yet, so rich they show, <br />Winter is almost summer where they grow.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/firwood/
