.
.
             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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