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!