WHEN frost's all on our winder, an' the snow's All out-o'-doors, our "Old-Kriss"-milkman goes A-drivin' round, ist purt' nigh froze to death, With his old white mustache froze full o' breath. But when it's summer an' all warm ag'in, He comes a-whistlin' an' a-drivin' in Our alley, 'thout no coat on, ner ain't cold, Ner his mustache ain't white, ner he ain't old. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STILL LIFE by ANNE MILLAY BREMER TANAGER by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN CHANGE UPON CHANGE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 2. BY THE SHORE by EDWARD CARPENTER TO MY LITTLE SON by RALPH CHAPLIN WORM-PROOF by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES |