Poetry Archives

Into my disappointment-cup
  The snowflakes fell and blocked the road,
And so I thought I’d finish up
  The latest style of Christmas ode;
When she, the charming little lass
  With eyes as bright as isinglass,
Before a line my pen had wrought
  In strange attire came bounding in,
As if she had with Bruno fought,
  And robbed him of his shaggy skin.

She came to me robed cap-a-pie
  In her bewitching “blanket-suit,”
In moccasin and toggery,
  All ready for “that icy chute,”
And asked me if I thought she’d do;
  I shake with love of mischief true:
“For what?—a polar bear?—why, yes!”
  “No, no!” she said, with half a pout.
“Why, one would think so, by your dress—
  Say, does your mother know you’re out?”

“No, I’m not out,” she said, and sighed;
  “Because the storm so wildly raged—
But for the first delightful ride
  For half a year I’ve been engaged.”
“Engaged to what?—an Esquimau?
  To ride a glacier, or a floe?”
“Why, don’t you know”—her color glowed,
  In expectation all agog—
“The reason why I’m glad it snowed?
  Because—I’m going to tobog.”