Then away to the fields it went blustering and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming. 
It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows,
And tossed the colts’ manes all about their brows,
Till offended at such a familiar salute,
They all turned their backs and stood silently mute.

So on it went, capering and playing its pranks;
Whistling with reeds on the broad river banks;
Puffing the birds, as they sat on a spray,
Or the travelers grave on the king’s highway. 
It was not too nice to bustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags. 
’Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor’s wig, and the gentleman’s cloak. 
Through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, “Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I’ll make you bow!”
And it made them bow without more ado,
Or it cracked their great branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster o’er cottage and farm,
Striking their inmates with sudden alarm;
And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm. 
There were dames with kerchiefs tied over their caps,
To see if their poultry were free from mishaps. 
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,
And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,
Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone. 
But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane
With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain,
For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood
With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.
                                             William Howitt.

A DAY

I’ll tell you how the sun rose,—­
  A ribbon at a time. 
The steeples swam in amethyst,
  The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,
  The bobolinks begun. 
Then said I softly to myself,
  “That must have been the sun!”

But how he set I know not;
  There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
  Were climbing all the while.

Till when they reached the other side,
  A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
  And led the flock away.
                         Emily Dickinson.

THE GRASS

The grass so little has to do,—­
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine,—­
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine.