The Arctic Pole, with winds that pierce;
With James for foe and all the meadows mired
I feel in concord with the wildest plan,
And grudge no effort that may be required
To enfilade the man.
But now how hard, when Spring is active,
To utter anything but purrs;
With all the hillside so attractive
How can one concentrate on "spurs"?
And oh, I sympathise with that young scout