A little garden on a bleak¹ hillside
Where deep the heavy, dazzling mountain snow
Lies far into the spring.  The sun's pale glow
Is scarcely able to melt patches wide
About the single rose bush.  All denied
Of nature's tender ministries².  But no, --
For wonder-working faith has made it blow
With flowers many hued³ and starry-eyed.
Here sleeps the sun long, idle summer hours;
Here butterflies and bees fare far to rove
Amid the crumpled⁴ leaves of poppy flowers;
Here four o'clocks, to the passionate⁵ night above
Fling whiffs of perfume, like pale incense⁶ showers.
A little garden, loved with a great love!

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