  THE tawny sheaves of wheat Are standing on their feet, They cuddle together, They huddle together, They laugh out bold, Their tassels of gold They toss up together; They gossip together In the harvest weather; And what may the thing they are whispering be? The trees stand waiting; The windmills are prating And gesticulating— But what is debating? What do they wait to hear or to see? We shall soon know, I trust— Whew, the wind! just A soft, rapid gust, That swirls about the dust In the serpentine green lane, and the straws upon the lea! The light white mill divines; I can see him making signs To his heavy black brother; They nod to each other— “Hail-fellows-well-met with the Wind are we!” And my lady in her bower, Or her parlour, or her tower, Says, “In about an hour We shall have a thunder-shower”—— Shine or storm, pretty lady, keep a kiss for me! |
|
