The Little Garden

A little garden on a bleak 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 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 o'clocks, to the passionate night above
 Fling whiffs of perfume, like pale incense showers.
A little garden, loved with a great love!
The Little Garden

by Amy Lowell, 1912
