I sit with my feet in the oven,

My nose close up to the pipe ;
I 'm as jokey as any spring robin,

That 's fresh and is rather unripe.

I still wear my ear muffs and cap ;

I still to my overcoat cling ;
Still I feel it my duty to sit

And warble of ; Beautiful Spring.

But my warble is husky and harsh,
And my melody suffers from cracks ;

For the froglets down there in the marsh
Are shivering with humps on their backs.

Of my country I 'm awfully proud ;

So I close to the cooking stove cling,
And lilt, like a dog in a shroud,

Of the coming of Beautiful Spring.

The neck of old winter's giraffic,

It reaches far out into May ;
O, come with your sonnet seraphic,

Sweet robin, come early, I pray.

But be sure and put overshoes on ;

Bring an overcoat over your wing,
And a bag full of mufflers and socks,

When you herald Ethereal Spring.
But still will I manfully sit,

While I close to the cooking stove cling ;
In the voice of a frosted tomtit

Will I sing of Ethereal Spring.