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 cold 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.
John Keats, 1817