Autumn

I love the fitful gust that shakes

The casement all the day,

And from the glossy elm tree takes

The faded leaves away,

Twirling them 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 cottage 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 trees,

The pigeons nestled round the cote

On November days like these;

The cock upon the dunghill crowing,

The mill sails on the heath a-going.

The feather from the raven's breast

Falls on the stubble lea,

The acorns near the old crow's nest

Drop pattering down the tree;

The grunting pigs, that wait for all,

Scramble and hurry where they fall.