XXX
The Hemlock
I think the hemlock likes to standUpon 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 windsIs sweetest nutriment to him,His best Norwegian wines.
To satin races he is nought;But children on the DonBeneath his tabernacles play,And Dnieper wrestlers run.