I sit with my feet in the oven,
My nose close up to the pipe ;
I 'm as jokey as any spring robin,
That 's fresh and is rather unripe.
I still wear my ear muffs and cap ;
I still to my overcoat cling ;
Still I feel it my duty to sit
And warble of ; Beautiful Spring.
But my warble is husky and harsh,
And my melody suffers from cracks ;
For the froglets down there in the marsh
Are shivering with humps on their backs.
Of my country I 'm awfully proud ;
So I close to the cooking stove cling,
And lilt, like a dog in a shroud,
Of the coming of Beautiful Spring.
The neck of old winter's giraffic,
It reaches far out into May ;
O, come with your sonnet seraphic,
Sweet robin, come early, I pray.
But be sure and put overshoes on ;
Bring an overcoat over your wing,
And a bag full of mufflers and socks,
When you herald Ethereal Spring.
But still will I manfully sit,
While I close to the cooking stove cling ;
In the voice of a frosted tomtit
Will I sing of Ethereal Spring.