Of the deathly-fruited bough:
Cold and black with malison
Lies between the land and sun;
Putting out the sun, the bough
Shades England now!
The troubled heavens so wan with care,
And burdened with the earth’s despair
Shiver a-cold; the starved heaven
Has want, with wanting men bereaven.
Blest fruit of the unblest bough,