November 15 to 30

Winter Fire

How bleak and cold the air is now-

The Sun has never left his bed:

He has a thick grey blanket pulled

All over his shoulders and head.

Big birds that only have one cry,

And little birds with perfect songs,

Are silent all, and work their wings

Much faster than they work their tongues.

I’ll that black-faced nigger, Coal,

Into an Indian painted red;

And let him dance and fire wild shots

Into the chimney overhead.