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 feast 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 hor of winter day might seem too short To make it worth life's while to wake and sport.
