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}
