I love the fitful gust that shakes
The casement all day,
And from the mossy elm-tree takes
The faded leaves away,
Twirling them by the window pane
With thousand rothers down the lane.
I love to see the shakung twig
Dance till the shut of eve
The sparrow on the cottage right,
Whose chirp would make believe
That spring was just now flirting by
In summer's lap with flowers to lie to Lie.
I love to see the cottage smoke
Curl upwards through the naked trees,
The pigeons nestled round the cote
On dull November days like these; the cock upon the dung-hill crowing,
The mill sails on the heath a-going.
The feather from the raven's breast
Falls on the stubble lay,
The acorns near the old crow's nest
Fall pattering down the tree;
The grunting pigs, that wait for all,
Scramble and hurry where they fall.