A FREEZING POINT.
(By a Frozen-out Lover.)
They tell me thou art cold, my sweet—
A fact that scarcely odd is.
Gales half so cruel never beat
Against poor human bodies.
Cupid's attire is far too light
To weather Thirty Fahrenheit.
How can a glow the soul entrance,
When frostbite nips the finger,
And blushes quit the countenance
To nigh the nostril linger!
Warmth were a miracle, in sight
And grip of Thirty Fahrenheit.
Chill! chill to me, my Paradise!!
I'll not complain or curse on.
One cannot well be otherwise
To any mortal person.
Mere icebergs ambulant, we fight
Ferocious Thirty Fahrenheit.
Cold art thou? Not so cold as I—
Nought living could be colder.
I'm far too cold to sob or sigh,
Still less in passion smoulder.
I'm turning fast to something quite
As numb as Thirty Fahrenheit.
INFORMATION REQUIRED.—"Sir, I see a Volume advertised entitled, Unspoken Sermons. I should be glad to know where these are preached, as that's the place for yours truly, ONE WHO SNORES."
NEW BOOK OF IRISH LIFE.—The Bedad's Sons. By the Author of the tale of Indian Life, The Begum's Daughters.
