The iron-faced plough-land, riven by the ice,
the unremitting wind too hard for snow.
Blue fieldfares scattered on the plough.
They lift and drift a foot and pitch
and watch you pass.
The red-wings died before them. They will die,
Both air and earth have joined with men
they cannot fight;
their god has fouled them, and the fieldfares cannot fly
the drifting flock of fieldfares from the north.