IT is quaint to scuttle home
For three drops of rain;
Lest, like paintless houses,
We catch a weather-stain.
It is quaint to be afraid
Of freezing ugly toes;
To hide in furry luxury
A thing like a nose.
When you think that we shall lie
Tight in the ground
Fifty years — a hundred years —
And till the stars turn round —
Not abashed by glacial floods,
Nor frost that cleaves all stones —
It is quaint to take such care
Of our skin and bones.