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Poem: The Hemlock

The Hemlock

 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. 
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