Poem for July 17, 2025

OLD Winter, with his frosty beard,

Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred:

“What have I done of all the year,

To bear this hated doom severe?

My cheerless suns no pleasure know;

Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow;

My dismal months no joys are crowning,

But spleeny English hanging, drowning.

“Now Jove, for once be mighty civil.

To counterbalance all this evil;

Give me, and I’ve no more to say,

Give me Maria’s natal day!

That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.”

“’Tis done!” says Jove; so ends my story,

And Winter once rejoiced in glory.