Wren Burial

             Bitter melancholy twists through the boughs on the
   dying day of the year, and through the trees a column of gaily dressed
   mourners. Bitter cold on the unsnowed, frosted earth and the Piper
   at the head, cleaving the air.
            Behind him the green-leaf bier: Black-veiled Queen 
    taps her fingers (a little impatiently) at the sixth attempt at a
   lover born away. Robin beside her puffing out his red fat chest 
   and sitting in regal warmth.
           The wren has died again who now lies stiff and belly
   up, with blue frozen claws curled (one might think) in tiny
   supplication; Robin cocks a merry eye, then glances at the
   Queen.

             The day of festivities over, the Night is natal to the Year. 

          Far more quick than thought the Ram, the Lion and the
   Archer pass through their obedient marching town: new
   harvest long gathered, and ploughed fields in states of brown
   expectation.

           A tearing noise commences in the silence. 

                Alone under the freezing myrtle, finding no refuge 
   On the crumbling earth, crouches Robin trembling:
       At the end of the seventh year, wide-eyed and frozen-clawed
                     as he hears the hunting-cry not far enough, and the Piper
                                           tuning up.