by Ruth Herschberger

I swam the Huron of love， and am not ashamed，

It was many saw me do it， scoffing， scoffing，

They said it was foolish， winter and all，

But I dove in， greaselike， and swam，

And came up where Erie verges.

I would say for the expenditure of love，

And the atrophy of longing， there is no cure

So swift， so sleek， so fine， so draining

As a swim through the Huron in the wintertime.