Or thaws and rains make life a sea of mud.
You close each door, draw armchairs nigh the fire,
But draughts sneak in and make you draw ’em nigher–
No matter: still they come: play parlour gales
And whisk about their hyperboreal tails;
Bed’s the one hope, and scarcely tried before
Next morning’s postman thunders at the door.
Meanwhile–if I may gently hint–I wear
But scanty clothes, though all the sun will bear;
A red-hot sun smiles on a hot blue sea