Richard Kendal

I could not sleep for aching cold;
And as I turned and tossed
I muttered: This sharp spell will mean
Money and labour lost:
My currant-bushes, newly bought,
Will all be killed by frost.

The bushes I've saved up to buy,
And with back-breaking toil
Have set with roots spread carefully
In the well-watered soil,
Are just an acre of innocents
For early frost to spoil.

Though every bush survived the cold
To pay me royally,
The breaking of the morrow's morn
Brought bitter news to me,
For in the night my oldest friend
Had perished, drowned at sea.

In drowning darkness, icy-chill,
My oldest friend was lost:
Yet never once I'd thought of him
As fretfully I tossed,
Concerned lest my new currant-trees
Should suffer from the frost.
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