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-
And 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.
