I love the cold; it agrees with me,
I am minded like its petrifaction,
Or do I mean perfection? My heart
Is cold and loves to stroll through cold,
And seems to see a better speech
Rolling in fat clouds of breath.
I keep talk for my walks, silent clouds
That flow in ample, mouthing white
Along the paths. At home
Where I’ve closeted my wife
And instituted children in the warm
I keep my silence, lest
Those I love, regard, catch cold from me
As though I strolled through mould, and breathing,
Puffed white clouds to spore more fur.
I never take them on my long cold walks alone,
I save them for a warmer time, some kind of spring;
Saved up in me like frozen seeds among
Crisp-flaring turf, stiff marsh, gagged stream,
Paths the skidding ferrule will not prick;
Where floes creak and yearn at floes
To fuse and bind the Thames for walking on.
A Silent Man
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