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THE CHILLY LOVER
On me his miserable music making,
Seizing each finger in his icy hold.—
Ursula, for thee
My heart is baking,—
But I'm so cold!
Within thy room with friendly glow
I see the hearthfire shining clear;
The crackling faggots I can hear,—
And I am numb from top to toe!
Oh, must I freeze while thou art toasting?
Shall not my suffering be consoled?
Sweet Ursula, for thee
I am just roasting,—
But I'm so cold!
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