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.

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