There is strange music in the stirring wind, When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood’s cold covert thou art gone, Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sere. If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, Thou late…

Methought I heard a butterflySay to a labouring bee,Thou hast no colours of the skyOn painted wings, like me. Poor child of vanity! those dyes,And colours bright and rare,With mild reproof, the bee replies,Are all beneath my care. Content I toil from morn till eve,And, scorning idleness,To tribes of gawdy…