The Stranger’s hopes. At night returning late
To the cheerless hut his own hands had raised,
Laden with unbought dainties these, he praised
His happy fortune from a more grateful breast
Than a king seated at his unearned feast!
I marked how he began; when next I came,
Transformed the garden! Gardener the same.
His the first roses, though an unkind spring,
And ripe apples ere leaves were yellowing.
While frost splintered the rocks, and ice and snow—