Ianuarye

You naked trees, whose shady leaues are lost

Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre:

And now are cloth'd with mosse and hoary frost,

Instead of bloosmes, werewith your buds did flowre:

I see your teares, that from your boughes doe raine,

Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine.

{More from Colin Cloute - (who knows not Colin Cloute?) - as the year progresses}