FROM seventy-two North latitude, My Kitty, I indite; But first I'd have you understand How hard it is to write. Of thoughts that breathe and words that burn, Dear Kitty, do not think, -- Before I wrote these very lines, I had to melt my ink. Of mutual flames and lover's warmth, You must not be too nice; The sheet that I am writing on Was once a sheet of ice! The Polar cold is sharp enough To freeze with icy gloss The genial current of the soul, E'en in a "Man of Ross." Pope says that letters waft a sigh From Indus to the Pole; But here I really wish the post Would only "post the @3coal."@1 So chilly is the Northern blast, It blows me through and through A ton of Wallsend in a note Would be a billet-doux! In such a frigid latitude It scarce can be a sin, Should Passion cool a little, where A Fury was iced in. I'm rather tired of endless snow, And long for coals again; And would give up a Sea of Ice, For some of Lambton's Main. I'm sick of dazzling ice and snow, The sun itself I hate; So very bright, so very cold, Just like a summer grate. For opodeldoc I would kneel, My chilblains to anoint; O Kate, the needle of the North Has got a freezing point. Our food @3is@1 solids, -- ere we put Our meat into our crops, We take sledge-hammers to our steaks And hatchets to our chops. So very bitter is the blast, So cutting is the air, I never have been warm but once, When hugging with a bear. One thing I know you'll like to hear, Th' effect of Polar snows, I've left off snuff -- one pinching day -- From leaving off my nose. I have no ear for music now; My ears both left together; And as for dancing, I have cut My toes -- it's cutting weather. I've said that you should have my hand, Some happy day to come; But, Kate, you only now can wed A finger and a thumb. Don't fear that any Esquimaux Can wean me from my own; The Girdle of the Queen of Love Is not the Frozen Zone. At wives with large estates of snow My fancy does not bite; I like to see a Bride -- but not In such a deal of white. Give me for home a house of brick, The Kate I love at Kew! A hand unchopped -- a merry eye; And not a nose, of blue. To think upon the Bridge of Kew, To me a bridge of sighs; Oh, Kate, a pair of icicles Are standing in my eyes! God knows if I shall e'er return, In comfort to be lull'd! But if I do get back to port, Pray let me have it mull'd! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INFLUENCE by BELLE BEARDEN BARRY DAWN MAGIC by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN RECOGNITION by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE SUNLIT VALE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE DEATH OF SCHILLER by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT LANGEMARCK AT YPRES by WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL TO SYLO by GAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS INFALLIBILITY; QUATRAIN by THOMAS STEPHENS COLLIER CATHARINA: SECOND PART; ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY by WILLIAM COWPER |