Index Malorum

The wild waves beat upon the shore, 
   The sand is flecked with flying spume,
   The cliffs have hid themselves in gloom, 
The gas is lit at half past four. 

The draughts are flying here and there 
   All aimless, and our bodies chill; 
   We plug with wood the window sill
And shiver in the nipping air. 

We sit and shiver row on row,
   We wrap ourselves in rug and cloak, 
   The chimneys fill the room with smoke,
And we—we wish it were not so. 

The rime lies white on Goosey Pool, 
   The hoar frost glitters from the sedge, 
   We talk of in- and outer- edge,
And furbish skates throughout the School. 

Tho' hours be dull and days be cold, 
   And spirits, noses, fingers, blue,
   This longest term wears slowly through, 
And brings us cates, and Christmas gold — 

The gift of those that love us so 
   And send us to Devonian strands, 
   And sit and rub paternal hands
Behind a yard-broad fire's glow. 

They think of us sometimes. Alas, 
   Their comforts come before our eyes 
   Too vividly whene'er we rise
And hear the ice clink in the glass.

Choose another poem