A few tossed thrushes save <br />That carolled less than cried <br />Against the dying rave <br />And moan that never died, <br />No bird sang then; no thorn, <br />No tree was green beside <br />Them only never shorn - <br />The few by all the winds <br />And chill mutations born <br />Of Winter's many minds <br />Abused and whipt in vain - <br />Swarth yew and ivy kinds <br />And iron breeds germane.<br /><br />Ralph Hodgson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/february-17/
