The fir trees taper into twigs and wear

font Mister Sirloin

 

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Firwood.

 

John Clare

 

The fir trees taper into twigs and wear

The rich blue green of summer all the year,

Softening the roughest tempest almost calm

And offering shelter ever still and warm

To the small path that towels underneath,

Where loudest winds--almost as summer's breath--

Scarce fan the weed that lingers green below

When others out of doors are lost in frost and snow.

And sweet the music trembles on the ear

As the wind suthers through each tiny spear,

Makeshifts for leaves; and yet, so rich they show,

Winter is almost summer where they grow.

 

Done