This New England

"A Winter Eden,'' by Robert Frost

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

Comments

Terrence McCarthy said:

One can never get enough of Frost, even in the dead of a long New England winter. Emily Dickinson, another poet familiar with Amherst, Mass. wrote, " Hope is the thing with feathers. "

A lot of those things are down here, spending the winter on the North Carolina coast. Kudos to those who stay up there and tough it out.

Link | January 5, 2009 5:05 PM
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