Of warbling birds: or watery bells

Of rivulets in the hills:

Or whether on blazing downs a high lark’s hymn

Alone in the azure dim:

Or a sough of pines, when the midnight wold

Is solitary and cold:

Or a lapping river-ripple all day chiding

The bow of my wherry gliding

Down Thames, between his flowery shores

Re-echoing to the oars: