As steam wafts up in whitish tendrils' pale Dance, likeas figures which cavort from hence In ghostly silence til the ether thence Half swallows them--as spirits in betrayl Taen into heaven ist? Look past, t'avail Me of the world beyond this window, whence See how fir boughs nod to chill breaths for sense While lo, the Maple's naked yet, calm frail. This first cup black, we're being good Swedes I'm sure, And savour all the more what Daddy'd brew Upon that note. Remember too as twere My sister'n'law who'd drink joe like I knew Old seasoned captains would: black. And in poor Still voiceless naught, the radio chatters too.
Having been told that good Swedes drink their coffee black, I cringed. And my first sister-in-law was not at all Swedish either. I prefer cream, NO sugar, though.