Frosted Poem by Ernestine Northover
Frosted
Cold hands, warm heart, they say,
And yet, how the cold winds chill my heart today.
Creeping within my warmly wrapped attire,
Not caring how or when they quench the fire
Contained therein. Now the body's frosted to the bone,
And to shivers prone, and hands are still so cold.
Where are warm gloves sold?
© Ernestine Northover
This is like a fine hand to heart, what a wealth of talent in such a fine lady
My hands are always cold! A nicely crafted piece that flows really well Ernestine. Warmest wishes, Justine.
It is very good, the way you have crafted a poem around a well-known saying.
Is a warm heart worth the cold hands? I am so cold-natured that I think not!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 6:58:25 PM # 1.0.0.1119
A touching poem Ernestine, knit your own I say! Andrew x