The Hemlock. By Emily Dickinson

    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.