Some white-tail'd antelope blow by

So airy-like; some foxes shy

And shadow-like shoot to and fro

Like weavers' shuttles, as you pass;

And now and then from out the grass

You hear some lone bird cluck, and call

A sharp keen call for her lost brood,

That only makes the solitude,

That mantles like some sombre pall,

Seem deeper still, and that is all.