And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
A burnished length of wavy beam
In an eel-like spiral line below:
The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,
And nought is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katy-did;
And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will,
Who moans unseen and ceaseless sings,