As storms do brew, an' skies do frown—
An' though the down do let us free,
The lowland trees be company.
Where birds do zing, below the zun,
In trees above the blue-smok'd tun,
An' sheädes o' stems do overstratch
The mossy path 'ithin the hatch;
If leaves be bright up over head,
When Maÿ do shed its glitt'rèn light;
Or, in the blight o' Fall, do spread