January.
Rosaline E. Jones.
Who can love you, January?
You are gruff and ugly—very.
How you roar!
And a sorry tale you utter,
In a maniacal mutter,
At my door.
Then you sob and sigh and pine,
In a mindless, minor whine,
And again
A wild, grewsome ditty slips
From your frozen, rigid lips,
Fierce as pain.
Like some creature strung to hate,
Wrestling with its cruel fate,
Conquering
Only as you flee apace,
Glaring back with grim, wry face,
Mimicking.
Hush your savage minstrelsy
To a mellower symphony,
Soft and deep.
Know you no mellifluous rune?
No low, lulling cradle croon,
Wooing sleep?
No soft breath from slumbrous isles,
Where eternal summer smiles
Halcyon?
Beat your tattoo for your raids,
And decamp for Hadean shades.
Pray begone!