Classic Poem

In December's frost and sleet
Still your chilly kisses greet
Every friend you chance to meet!
What a trick!
Such a vengeance to pursue
Were a cruel thing to do,
Though they all had beaten you
With a stick.
If my wife or little maid
To embrace me had essayed,
I had started quite afraid
In such weather,
And if you suppose your kiss
Is a yet sublimer bliss,
That idea you may dismiss
Altogether.
From your snout ('tis like a dog's)
Hangs the rime of frozen fogs,
And the beard it fairly clogs
Round your throat,
Where the shaggy mass coheres
Till it actually appears
Like the mass a shepherd shears
From a goat.
Though a greasy Gaul's caress
Might disgust me, I confess,
Would it cause such wretchedness
As you bring?
Common decency display,
And in charity, I pray
Put your kisses safe away
Till the spring.