O for a drosky and a pair,
To flee from wet, ennui, and care,--
To rush where Alps on Alps arise,
And genuine mountains pierce the skies;
Or by the side of some old stream,
To gaze into the heaven and dream,
Or see bright realms and hills of snow
Reflected in the calm below.
For here one dull and leaden cloud
Casts over all its daily shroud:
No star by night nor sun by day
Lights our return, nor cheers our way.
While I'm writing, rain is pouring,
Rivers rushing, shallows roaring,
Fahrenheit fifteen from freezing,
Wife and self and daughters sneezing.

Oh that I were lying roasting
On some deck, Morea coasting,
Or beholding some grand morn
Gild the spires of hot Leghorn;
Or preparing as I might
Stealthy meal 'twixt day and night,
Toasted bread, and melted butter,
Up the Hooghly, near Calcutta:
Oh that I might fly, and run
Twenty miles inside the sun,
Where they water from a kettle
Heliotropes with melted metal:
Oh that I were any where
With the heat too fierce to bear,
Teneriffe, or Isles Canary,
Smithfield under Bloody Mary,--
Any where, where cold is not
On the hobs, or in the pot,--
Or reclined on frying pan,
Whence, with many a wiser man,
Discontent, I would aspire
To a place within the fire.