The sallow loiterers of the autumn field.
The red-breasts, gathered into flocks, no longer pipe
Their sweetest songs beside the cottage door:
And the vast family of sea-birds screech
Their notes of sadness o’er the sounding sea.
The rivers lift their voices, as the rain
From chilly clouds falls on the dreary scene,
And high above their banks in torrents swell,
Sweeping the cottage and the well-filled barn,
The dam, the bridge, and the old ivied mill,