Classic Poem

Though now, while the March wind is keen,
The holly and ivy are green,
We ev'rywhere see in our walks,
By hedge or by wood, wither'd stalks;
Some stout that, unholden, have stood;
Some weak that have hung on green wood,
But beaten by rain, and by hail,
And snow, in the winterly gale,
Now totter or quiver all sear,
Dead shapes of the life of last year.

The teazle, although with a head
Spike-warded, is now smitten dead;
And nettles, with spears threat'ning pain
Of poison, are yet winter-slain.
All dry are the cow-parsley shoots,
And hemlock is pale to the roots.
The bryony's rotted away,
And clivers lose hold of the spray.
And all are now bloomless and sear,
Dead shapes of the life of last year.

But still, of the wort-life that sprung
When last summer's birdlings were young,
Good shapes, from the ground and the bough,
Are lingering on with us now.
Or apples or nuts from the trees,
Long beans or white ballkins of peas,
Or if thistledown fly on the wind,
Our own and our little ones' meat,
And may it be never too dear
For old and for young through the year.