The Frequent Donor

I almost never
Compose cheerful poems,
Especially not
In the depths of November,

But you would be mistaken,
Dear, lonely reader,
To take the tone of the poems
As the fetch of me.

I had a friend, once,
Who built up iron
And had to be bled, weekly,

To keep his iron
From killing him. Giving blood
Kept him alive, cheerfully.