Sought.

Caillebotte, Rooftops Under Snow, 1878

The DARKLING THRUSH

I leant upon a coppice gate

            When Frost was spectre-gray,

And Winter’s dregs made desolate

             The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

             Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

             Had sought their household fires.

Thomas Hardy

Thank you, Kurt.