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:
Warm Summer Sun
Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.
Finding My Feet 
I’ve posted that poem on my blog, too. It’s a poem Twain wrote at the death of his daughter, an epitaph for her grave – simple, yet beautiful.