Then lay down your white wrath
Upon the tender and industriousFreeze feet and wings and flowers
Undo the hard won honey reserves
The precious eggs,
Cold in abandoned nests
Hide the buried nuts
From the waking squirrel
Do your worst
But tis a wasted spite
We will wait for you to weaken
And enjoy the sun all the more
As we rise into the summer
And you are long gone
And the honey shall flow again
Like a river of gold
From the snow-white comb