The Coming Storm

The tree-tops rustle, the tree-tops wave, They hustle, they bustle; and, down in a cave, The winds are murmuring, ready to rave.

The skies are dimming; the birds fly low, Skimming and swimming, their wings are slow; They float, they are carried, they scarcely go.

The dead leaves hurry; the waters, too, Flurry and scurry; as if they knew A storm was at hand; the smoke is blue.