Classic Poem

Who's talkin' 'bout the summer time
When all the skies perspire?
Jest give me winter, brotherin',
An' a fine oak fire!

The sleety rain a-comin' down —
The wind a-howlin' higher
Than all the steeples in the town,
An' me — before a fire,

With " cider " settin' on the shelf —
The brand I most desire;
The blaze a-talkin' to itself —
The language o' the fire.

That's when the coldest winter night
A reg'lar picnic seems,
The sparks a-flyin' left an' right,
An' me a-dreamin' dreams!

That's when I'm comfortabler than
I am on summer days
When buds an blossoms bresh yer han'
An vi'lets crowd the ways.

An' when a feller's dreamin' so
His ol' sweethearts come nigher,
Love takes a seat an' warms his feet
Before a fine oak fire!