Weathers by Thomas Hardy

This is the weather the cuckoo likes, 

And so do I; 

When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, 

And nestlings fly; 

And the little brown nightingale bills his best, 

And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,' 

And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, 

And citizens dream of the south and west, 

And so do I. 

This is the weather the shepherd shuns, 

And so do I; 

When beeches drip in browns and duns, 

And thresh and ply; 

And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, 

And meadow rivulets overflow, 

And drops on gate bars hang in a row, 

And rooks in families homeward go, 

And so do I.