'Keen, fitful gusts are whispering here and there'

Keen, fitful gusts are whispering 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-haired Milton's eloquent distress,

   And all his love for gentle Lycid drowned;

Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

   And faithful Petrarch gloriously crowned.