‘Twas warm–at first–like Us—
Until there crept upon
A Chill–like frost upon a Glass—
Till all the scene—be gone.
The Forehead copied Stone—
The Fingers grew too cold
To ache–and like a Skater’s Brook—
The busy eyes–congealed—
It straightened–that was all—
It crowded Cold to Cold—
It multiplied indifference—
As Pride were all it could—
And even when with Cords—
‘Twas lowered, like a Weight—
It made no Signal, nor demurred,
But dropped like Adamant.
