.
.
Keen, fitful gusts
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 homes 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.
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