I love the fitful gust that shakes
  The casement all the day, 
And from the mossy elm tree takes 
  The faded leaf away, 
Twirling it by the window pane 
With thousand others down the lane.

I love to see the shaking twig 
  Dance till the shut of eve, 
The sparrow on the vottage rig 
  Whose chirp would make believe 
That spring was just now flirting by
In summer's lap with flowers 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 dunghill crowing; 
The mill sails on the heath agoing.

The feather from the raven's breast 
   Falls on the stubble lea; 
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.