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At night, the rollers roil in.
A roaring ocean of frigid air,
An upwelling swell from Hell's icy core,
Floods our temperate landscape
With tsunamis of subzero shivers.
We hibernators who huddle
In layers of artificial fur
Deep in our right-angled dens
Are not immune to the saber-stabs
The hoar giants deal us; they penetrate
The outer walls, the flannels, the lap robes--
All ineffectual paraphernalia--
And chill us to the marrow.