It is not that we fear the cold: had we a good supply
Of proper nourishment, the blasts of Greenland we’d defy;
But these poor bodies where we dwell have so impatient grown
That, heedless of the common good, they’ve learned to slight their own.
Not thinking that with fuel we our office would perform,
And take in oxygen to keep the blood and all the body warm.
So down the window-sashes go and up the stoves, until
We starving lungs must labor hard our duty to fulfill.
Perhaps our tabernacle moves to pitch its roving tent
Within some crowded hall or church—no doubt with good intent;