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.