A little garden on a bleak hillside

Where deep the heavy, dazzling mountain snow

Lies far into the spring. The suns pale glow

Is scarcely able to melt patches wide

About the single rose bush. All denied

Of natures tender ministries. But no, --

For wonder-working faith has made it blow

With flowers many hued and starry-eyed.

Here sleeps the sun long, idle summer hours;

Here butterflies and bees fare far to rove

Amid the crumpled leaves of poppy flowers;

Here four oclocks, to the passionate night above

Fling whiffs of perfume, like pale incense showers.

A little garden, loved with a great love!