The seasons.
169
In solitary fens, seeking for food
The red marsh berry, and the mailed buds
Of the young, tender branches; or, athirst,
Driving its sharp bill through the polished ice
Into the wave below. It hath no song,
Only a few weird notes; and when the sun
Melts into lucid pools the snow that lies
In the rock crevices, it will go north
With the white water-fowl, that trooping fly,
In ranked battalions, through the gates of March.
The red marsh berry, and the mailed buds
Of the young, tender branches; or, athirst,
Driving its sharp bill through the polished ice
Into the wave below. It hath no song,
Only a few weird notes; and when the sun
Melts into lucid pools the snow that lies
In the rock crevices, it will go north
With the white water-fowl, that trooping fly,
In ranked battalions, through the gates of March.
