Rough the dripping leaves does swing
Upon the sullen breeze cold fluttering.
From frowning skies clouds does blast
Silver rain drops approaching so fast.
When blossoming buds had lightly swayed
In lustrous the vacant blushing glade.
The last white rose falls on holy ground
As soft a feather and light as down.
My gentle thoughts then streams aloof
Beneath the glimmered drumming roof.
How fogged the morning seem to pant
How wet the morning fields and plants.
That stilled my feet from toil today
To plow the lands thats light and gay.
The skies above it barks and groans
Until the golden sun of morn returns.