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.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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