A Raven, while with glossy breast   Her new-laid eggs she fondly pressed,
  And on her wickerwork high mounted,
  Her chickens prematurely counted,
  (A fault philosophers might blame
  If quite exempted from the same).
  Enjoyed at ease the genial day;
  'Twas April, as the bumpkins say;
  The legislature called it May.
  But suddenly a wind, as high
  As ever swept a winter sky,
  Shook the young leaves about her ears
  And filled her with a thousand fears,
  Lest the rude blast should snap the bough,
  And spread her golden hopes below.
  ............