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 home's pleasant lair: 
For I am brimfull of the friendliness 
That in a little cottage I have found; 
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress, 
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd; 
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress, 
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.