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A winter
garden in an alder swamp,
Where conies now come out
to sun and romp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.
It
lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher
than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven
overhead,
And last year's berries shining scarlet
red.
It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast
Where
he can stretch and hold his highest feat
On some wild
apple tree's young tender bark,
What well may prove
the year's high girdle mark.
So near to paradise
all pairing ends:
Here loveless birds now flock as
winter friends,
Content with bud-inspecting. They
presume
To say which buds are leaf and which are
bloom.
A feather-hammer gives a double knock.
This Eden day is done at two o'clock.
An hour of
winter day might seem too short
To make it worth
life's while to wake and sport
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