WINTER BATH-SONG.
For weeks the sun each morn arose
As 'tis his nature to,
But little difference he made
Sopp'd by the fog's asthmatic shade;
From day's beginning till its close
The day no brighter grew.
Above the sheets, the sleeper's nose
Peep'd shyly, as afraid,
While 'neath the dark and draughty flue
The burnt-out cinders meanly strew
The hearth, where now no firelight glows,
No waiting warmth is laid.
Full many a morn I sprang from bed,
As o'er the deadly brink
The wretch, with courage of despair,
Leaps from the slimy river-stair,
By hopeless hope unthinking sped,
Ere he can pause to think.
Cold as the efforts of the dead,
The needle-atom'd air,
Impinged upon the limbs that shrink.
On shivering shanks, and eyelids pink,
And bound its bands about the head,
And chill'd the underwear.
The frost that held us in its grip,
Would raise the prisoning paw,
And Nature, like a mouse set free,
Enjoyed delusive liberty,
While every water-pipe must drip
To greet the passing thaw.
Then rudely dashed from eager lip
The cup of joy would be,
And fingers numbed, and chattering jaw,
Owned unexpelled the winter's flaw,
And on the steps the goodmen slip,
And shout the major D.
Long like a fossil tipsy-cake
The sponge each morn appeared;
The bath, if plenished over-night,
Was frozen ere the morning light,
And more that frigid water-ache
Than unwashed days I feared,
Now while the milder zephyrs shake
Once more the winter's might,
My sponge, my bath, by loss endeared,
Shall dree no more a lonely weird;
And as young ducks to water take,
Shall be my bath ward flight.