Sonnet: 'Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there'

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there

      Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;

      The stars look very cold about the sky,

And I have many miles on foot to fare.

Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,

      Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,

      Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,

Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:

For I am brimful of the friendliness

      That in a little cottage I have found;

Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,

      And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;

Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

      And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.