'Tis Eighty-Four Degrees, My Ladies

'Tis Eighty-Four Degrees

The golden yoke of our sun breaks aloud,
cleaving through wooly heads of thunder clouds.

Birds trill songs of gray winter, now gone,
our week of wintertide--degrees, fifty, or fifty-one.

Away with our mittens and cloaks, no more freeze;
still in our closets hang our tanks and capris.

Hear now my ladies, the heat--how it begs
We must to our razors, and shaveth our legs.