The Wind, How The Wind Neighs, How Slow

The wind, how the wind neighs, how slow How stale the bosom of the lake How rare the rustling of the breeze In the oak trees. The sun shines faint, the clouds how grey They turn, how still scarce moving they And in the poplar trees in row A yellow leaf falls every now and then. How dull the day, how quaint The slow-gurgling water falls From the still mill, a solitary bee Or bird flies now and then Into the quiet. No animals their sittings hold On the lea that greened some months ago And now from the Far East A chill wind starts to blow. ‘Tis not yet Winter, ‘tis not yet frost The trees are not bare, but still And rare the rustling of the breeze In the oak trees. The owl on her old bough full staring sits And looks and looks but does not stir or move. The moon will soon shine languid-sick. How stale the bosom of the lake How rare the rustlings of the breeze In the oak trees.