Classic Poem

From seventy-two north latitude,
Dear Kitty, I indite;
But first I 'd have you understand
How hard it is to write.

Of thoughts that breathe and words that burn,
My Kitty, do not think, —
Before I wrote these very lines,
I had to melt my ink.

Of mutual flames and lovers' 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 coal. "

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 is 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,
The 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 fulled;
But if I do get back to port,
Pray let me have it mulled.