You’d think they had this bliss the whole year round,—
Evergreen grass!—and we, ploughed ground!
But come now, how does earth’s pet plumage grow
Under your snow?
Is your beloved grass as softly nice
When packed in ice?
For six long months you live beneath a blight,—
No grass in sight.
You bear up bravely. And not only that,
But leave your grass and travel; and thereat