The Old Man's Soliloquy

This feels like winter! Ugh! how bitterly
Cometh the keen northwester! In the west
Dark clouds are piled in gloomy masses up,
And from their folds comes freezingly the breath
Of the Storm-Spirit, couched and shrouded there.
But yestermorn the streams were murmuring
With their low, silvery voices, pouring forth
Their own peculiar music on the air,
And glancing in the sunshine radiantly.
Now their clear tones are hushed—for the Frost-King
Hath thrown his fetter on them, and evoked
The voice of melody that dwelt with them
In the bright summer hours, and they are staid
In their free current, frozen, murmurless.

     Where stays the sunshine? Hath it learned that Earth
Is chilled through all her veins, and for some grudge
That seemed forgotten long ago, resolved
To let it freeze for ever? Or, perchance,
The sun himself is frozen. If that cloud
Thatt hangs so like a pall along the sky,
Would move his boy corporate, and begone
Back to his ocean-mansion, we might learn
Whether the sun be dead or slumbering.

     Ho! bring my cloak, Katurah! Heap the wood
On the hot hearth—draw up the high-backed screen:
Let the winds whistle now, if so they will—
I care but little for their minstrelsy,
So I can shut from me their freezing breath.
Well—I am warm and quiet; but, i’faith,
I pity the poor wight that’s forced to face
Old Boreas to-day. Necessity
Alone will call forth travelers, and—ugh! ugh! 
This cough—ugh! ugh!—will kill me presently
An I am not more careful. Oh, the seams 
Around the doors and windows are unclosed.
List!—List!—a roll of list! I will not freeze 
In my own domicil. Heap on the wood,
An throw another mantle roun me—there!

     Hark, as I live, I heart the ringing sound
Of the light skaters on the frozen lake—
And see! how merrily they wheel away
In swift gyrations o’er the glassy ice,
As if a power were given them to fly!
They happy dogs!—Heaven grant they may not freeze.
I thought no boy would venture out to-day
For sport or labor, an he were not flogged
For tarrying within. Well, after all,
It may not be so very cold for them—
And I remember me when I was young,
How little cared I for the biting frost,
So I might whirl upon the ringing steel
Merrily on, surrounded by a group
As happy as myself, all life and joy!
But s’death! a few short years will make a change
In a man’s sensitiveness, ‘specially
When they bring with them gout and rheumatism,
Toothachs and agues, fevers and catarrhs—
And worse, far worse, than aught, ay, than all else,
Dread hypochondria! They will find it so—
Those merry boys now skating on the lake—
If they, like me, indulge in turtle-soup,
Sauces, and pies, and cakes, and the whole round 
Of eatables and drinkables which load
Their glutton-feeing table, who, like me,
Are cursed with wealth that brings but pain and care.
Would I were still a merry, pennyless boy,
As light of foot and heart as I was once—
Free from dispepsy—free from every pain
Money has purchased for me!—then would I 
Bind the bright skate upon my agile heel,
And skim—ugh! ugh!—I’ve added to my cold.