OH, the frost is on the pumpkin, Mary Jane; and the farmer hauls the fodder in his wain; and the ancient claybank mare has her winter coat of hair, and the cows are bawling sadly in the rain. In the morning there's a nipping, eager breeze, and the edges of the brook begin to freeze; all the summer bloom is dead, and the pretty birds are sped, and I have rheumatic twinges in my knees. You have heard me in the summer, Mary Jane, you have heard me raise the dickens and complain, wishing for some winter sleet, telling how the sizzling heat filled my person with a punk, unpleasant pain. And already, with a sad and longing sigh, I am thinking of the beauties of July, and I swear by August, too; then the skies are bright and blue, and a man can sit in comfort then and fry. I'm opposed to Father Winter and his storm; I indorse the kind of climate that is warm; when the nights are white with frost they increase our living's cost, and it's time the weather bureau knew reform. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOU KNOW WHAT PEOPLE SAY by JAMES GALVIN DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER [SEPTEMBER 1, 1862] by GEORGE HENRY BOKER ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH by WILLIAM COWPER PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 94. AL-HADI by EDWIN ARNOLD ANNIVERSARIUM BAPTISMI (2) by JOSEPH BEAUMONT THE LAST MAN by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES PROVERBS 31:25-29. THE MOTHER OF THE HOUSE by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE GOLDEN ODES OF PRE-ISLAMIC ARABIA: ANTARA by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |