The coming storm

The tree-tops rustle, the tree-tops wave,
They hustle, they bustle; and, down in a cave,
The winds are murmuring, ready to rave.

The skies are dimming; the birds fly low,
Skimming and swimming, their wings are slow;
They float, they are carried, they scarcely go.

The dead leaves hurry; the waters, too,
Flurry and scurry; as if they knew
A storm was at hand; the smoke is blue.