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.