And oft, as if her head she bowed,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-watered shore, 75
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
[Or, if the air will not permit],
Some still [removed] place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 80