He has no yard behind his house,
No garden green to till,
And so he works his hothouse plan
Upon his windowsill.
Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
Unconscious of a less propitious clime,
There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug,
While the winds whistle, and the snow descend.
The conservatory is the source of a good half of my deep-winter pleasure. The sense of growth going on,
of flowing sap, of buds opening and plants releasing
the sweet signals of their smells is a perpetual thrill.
In The Garden