No orchard’s the worse for the wintriest storm,
But one thing about it, it mustn’t get warm.
“How often already you’ve had to be told
Keep cold, young orchard. Good-bye and keep cold.
Dread fifty above more than fifty below.”
I have to be gone for a season or so;
My business awhile is with different trees,
Less carefully nurtured, less fruitful than these
And such as is done to their wood with an ax—
Maples and birches and tamaracks.