January's Disappointments.

But soft! what dost my cheek caress?
A warm, spring breeze; no more, no less.
Does it not know it's winter still
When we should sled down yonder hill?
Alas, the snow to mud has sunk,
And my demeanor to a funk.
My skis are bound,
My snowpants dry,
The sled imprisoned in attic high.
No white in sight,
Just mud and brown
And maiden's face turned to a frown.