There Blooms No Bud In May Can For Its White Compare With Snow At Break Of Day, On Fields Forlorn And Bare. For Shadow It Hath Rose, Azure, And Amethyst; And Every Air That Blows Dies Out In Beauteous Mist. It Hangs The Frozen Bough With Flowers On Which The Night Wheeling Her Darkness Through Scatters A Starry Light. Fearful Of Its Pale Glare In Flocks The Starlings Rise; Slide Through The Frosty Air, And Perch With Plaintive Cries. Only The Inky Rook, Hunched Cold In Ruffled Wings, Its Snowy Nest Forsook, Caws Of Unnumbered Springs.