The Great War

from Poems, an electronic edition


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.