It is winter with me now,—
Not a pippin on the bough
Save a single “froze-n-thaw”;
Spread your lap and it shall fall,—
It's an apple after all,
Though it's neither roast nor raw.

So my verse its life has lost
In its battles with the frost
And I fear the branch will break
While the leafless tree I climb
For this “froze-n-thaw” of rhyme
For a dear young maiden's sake.