Since thou, my dove, didst level thy wild wings
To goodlier shelter than my cabin makes,
I work with heavy hands, as one who breaks
The flax to spin a shroud of. April rings

With silvery showers, smiles light the face of May,
The thistle's prickly leaves are lined with wool,
And their gray tops of purple burs set full;
Quails through the stubble run. From day to day

Through these good seasons I have sadly mused.
The very stars, thou knowest, sweet, for what,
Draw their red flames together, standing not
About the mossy gables as they used.

No more I dread the winds, though ne'er so rough:
Better the withered bole should prostrate lie; —
Only the ravens in its black limbs cry,
And better birds will find green boughs enough.