LXXXI

I THINK the hemlock likes to stand

Upon a marge of snow;

It suits his own austerity,

And satisfies an awe

 

That men must slake in wilderness,

Or in the desert cloy, —

An instinct for the hoar, the bald,

Lapland’s necessity.

 

The hemlock’s nature thrives on cold;

The gnash of northern winds

Is sweetest nutriment to him,

His best Norwegian wines.

 

To satin races he is nought;

But children on the Don

Beneath his tabernacles play,

And Dnieper wrestlers run.