Frosted - Poem by Ernestine Northover
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
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