"She won't surrender her books, she won't put on her coat
It's a violent willful outburst of rage and annoyance
Like not having a room of one's own or the love of another
It's a fit of bad temper caused by the extremes of temperature
Nothing is mixed properly in her, she is excessive, rude,
Full of drama, intense fits of pitched proportion, freaking out,
She is hard and soft at once, hot and suddenly cool, mad,
She needs water, she needs kneading, she is not at all
Proportionate to the energy expended, how resilient is she?
Her frame of mind is readily angered and enraged,
She has a temper, it's a bad temper, she's really mad,
Her disposition is bad, her humor is excitable, volatile,
Her temperament is choleric hence she indulges excessively
In this fantastic outburst of kicking and resisting
In which the pitch of the tones of her loudest screams
Is like an electrically driven car to the consistent sun's
Hottest spots, she is fiery and dark, nothing tempers it,
It's her nature, she is bored, she's magnetic,
Her elbows won't bend into the sleeves of the dumb coat,
She has the strength of a thousand women and men, opposites,
The veins in her neck bulge with rage, rapid and combust,
She is exhausted, forced into the coat because of the cold,
She begs kisses in love's collaboration with some remorse,
The best thing is to take her away fast, make the change ,
She looks a mess from her bout with what's intense and what's not,
She flies into a charming contrariness which totally belies
That for her down was up and water milk, breath unallowed
And language the false start to love it is, how unknown it is,
Leaping and flying into the cold, we breathe"

-- B. Mayer, from Midwinter Day