Hawthorne, old Emerson, Henry and I 

Spent last Sunday, after church, skating,

Taking the air, stretching our limbs.

Thoreau, being the sport that he is, showed off 

His skill—pirouetting and leaping, long arms 

Windmilling. Waldo, bent at the waist, 

Cut a fine figure, but cautious, befitting his age, 

While Nathaniel and I circled the pond 

In pleasant repartee, a flask set by a convenient 

Snowbank comforted us from the chill, 

A bit of spirit spreads a satisfactory glow 

Throughout the bones and down to the toes. 

Melville came late, a most welcome presence,

And with little white puffs from his pipe 

Joined in the fun. A handsome group, we, 

I’ll allow, on the clear ice, in the midst of the hills, 

In the lee of the pines, low sun cutting shadows, 

A nip in the air, and the craic was good.