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