It’s January in Minnesota, and there’s no snow, but it got cold and windy today. Seems like a nice chilly night for a summery poem by Mark Twain.
Well, it’s not really about summer, but that’s perfectly fine. Even better, I think Twain would like that I’m reading this particular poem of his on a cold winter night, over 100 years after his death. (Reminds me of his comment about visiting Duluth, MN: “The coldest winter I ever spent was the summer I spent in Duluth.”) But the poem: