THE STOICS OF THE SERPENTINE.
I, for my part, admire
The snug domestic fire,
The comfortable hearth, the glowing coals,
Nor in the least aspire
To emulate those strong heroic souls
Who get up while it's dark
And haste to chill ablutions in Hyde Park.
It can't be very nice
To break the solid ice
And, like a walrus, plunge into the deep;
Then jump out in a trice,
Dissevering the icicles as you leap,
Even though the after-glow
Of virtue melts the circumjacent snow.
And we of milder mould,
And we who're growing old,
Wish they would wash, like other folk, elsewhere;
It makes us feel quite cold
To think of them refrigerating there;
We shiver in our beds;
Our pitying molars chatter in our heads.