  No, this is January, dear, The almanac's untrue; For roaring Boreas, 'tis clear, In sleet and snow and atmosphere, Will be the monarch of the year, And terror, too. "Is it a blessing in disguise?" Of course, things always are; But Arctic blasts with ardent skies That try to cheat by weather-lies The calendar. Old Janus must be double-faced; He promised long ago The maple syrup not to taste, Nor steal the roses from the waist Of one, a damsel fair and chaste As April snow. O winter of our discontent! Your reign was for a day; Behold! a scene of wonderment, A thousand tongues are eloquent, For spring, in bud and bloom and scent, Is on the way. |
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