1.Written in March by William Wordsworth The cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The plowboy is whooping-anon-anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! 2.Gathering Leaves By Robert Frost Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as ballons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer running away But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face.1.Written in March by William Wordsworth The cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The plowboy is whooping- anon-anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! 2. Gathering Leaves By Robert Frost Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as ballons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face