Marching in to Arctic drums;
Promised gift of spring succumbs
To ghosts of winter past.
Ice Queen reigns supreme for now,
Frigid frost on frigid brow;
Soon, she’ll have to take a bow,
For phantoms cannot last.
But soft, on what yon pole doth break
the breath of heaven’s dew,
in frozen apparition sweet
to tempt a child of two
to get him hence and lick said pole
with tongue egressed in kind;
Forsooth, what pain for him whose flesh
doth overpower mind!
Verily and anon, I beg of thee – keep thine tongue within its housing when thou dost wander past a tempting flag pole!