A Whirl-Blast from behind the hill <br />Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; <br />Then--all at once the air was still, <br />And showers of hailstones pattered round. <br />Where leafless oaks towered high above, <br />I sat within an undergrove <br />Of tallest hollies, tall and green; <br />A fairer bower was never seen. <br />From year to year the spacious floor <br />With withered leaves is covered o'er, <br />And all the year the bower is green. <br />But see! where'er the hailstones drop <br />The withered leaves all skip and hop; <br />There's not a breeze--no breath of air-- <br />Yet here, and there, and everywhere <br />Along the floor, beneath the shade <br />By those embowering hollies made, <br />The leaves in myriads jump and spring, <br />As if with pipes and music rare <br />Some Robin Good-fellow were there, <br />And all those leaves, in festive glee, <br />Were dancing to the minstrelsy.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-whirl-blast-from-behind-the-hill-2/
