Sunlight is deceiving in its joy
It claims such warmth, and yet will not deliver -
A miser, lest its happiness should cloy
By being something of an overgiver,
Instead of that, it keeps its heat its own
Maintaining such an insular degree
That, as the blasts of winters winds are blown,
It seems to suck the very soul of me
Despite the sunshine all is cold and grey
Within my quaking body. I am done
And all the lovely visage of the day
Cannot - or will not - give me even one
Moment of life. The cold is cold despite
The so-called warmth of day - I think it night.
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