Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky
And I have many miles on foot to fare
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high
Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair:
For I am brimful of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair’d Milton’s eloquent distress
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown’d;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crowned