I often wish to live above the circle, With day and night doing a different thing Than here at third past the forty-first; Where my winter Sol, if the clouds make way, Hangs too high. Were that it would stoop a little lower And birth dawn just a bit slower. You see, for sledding and packing snow, I need just a few hours each day. But, For reading, writing, and scheming There's ne'er enough dark ink this far south. On cold clear nights I look Northward hoping for a glimpse of Those Arctic shrouds I've never seen. Yet wrapped beneath soft flannel and wool, I dream of the haunting green That drapes across that north-most sky. Oh, I know that is not my place, And perhaps I'm a twisted Fool; But I wish that winter's night Would cast a longer spell, So sparks might better luminate its pall.