Orchard Trees, January

It's not the case, though some might wish it so

Who from a window watch the blizzard blow

White riot through their branches vague and stark,

That they keep snug beneath their pelted bark.

They take affliction in until it jells

To crystal ice between their frozen cells,

And each of them is inwardly a vault

Of jewels rigorous and free of fault,

Unglimpsed until in May it gently bears

A sudden crop of green-pronged solitaires.