  These winter days are passing fair! As if a breath of spring Had permeated all the air, And touched each living thing With thankfulness for such a boon— Discounting with a scoff The almanac's report that "June Is yet a long way off!" We quarrel with the calendar— For May has been misplaced— And doubt the tale oracular Of "Janus, double-faced;" For this "ethereal mildness" looks Toward shadowy delights Of roseate bowers, of cosy nooks, Of coming thermal nights. Let robes diaphanous succeed Dense garments made of fur, And overcoats maintain the lead— Among the things that were! The wisely-rented sealskin sacque, By many a dame possessed, Be quickly relegated back To its moth-haunted chest! In linen suit arrayed, Manipulates the palm-leaf fan And seeks the cooling shade; And he perspires who not in vain Suggests his funny squibs, By poking his unwelcome cane In other people's ribs. Who dares to fling opprobrium On January now? As to a potentate we come With reverential bow, Because it doth not yet appear That Time hath ever seen The ruler of th' inverted year In more benignant mien. O Boreas! do not lie low— That is, if "lie" thou must— Upon our planet; do not blow With fierce and sudden gust, But come so gently, tenderly— As come thou surely wilt— That we may have sweet dreams of thee, Beneath "our crazy quilt!" |
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