Winter

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.