Classic Poem

Not joyless is wind, raving high
Above many-wav'd streams by the hill;
While the clouds swiftly rush o'er the sky
Behind trees with no limb that is still,
If we only can stand, and withstand
The wild storm as it sweeps o'er the land.

Nor joyless where rain, on the blast
Of highwind, rushes on like a smoke;
And the raindrops, like gunshots, are cast
On the pond out below the bare oak,
If we walk not in clothing too thin
To keep warm from the rain the white skin.

Yet good to a shelter to flee;
To a nook in a hollow-cut rick;
Or the cove of an old hollow tree,
Or the wall-hooding ivy, wall-thick,
Or the bird boy's turf hut, weather proof
To the wind, and the rain, wall and roof.