Poem extract from The Greenhouse by William Cowper
Who loves a garden, loves a green-house too. Unconscious of a less propitious clime,
There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug,
While the winds whistle and the snow descend.
The spiry myrtle, with unwith’ring leaf,
Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast
of Portugal and Western India there,
The ruddier orange and the paler lime,
Peep through their polish’d foliage at the storm,
And seem to smile at what they need not fear.
