A few tossed thrushes save
That carolled less than cried
Against the dying rave
And moan that never died,
No bird sang then; no thorn,
No tree was green beside
Them only never shorn —
The few by all the winds
And chill mutations born
Of Winter’s many minds
Abused and whipt in vain —
Swarth yew and ivy kinds
And iron breeds germane.