And not the beaded dew that hung
The filmy stalks and weeds among.
His pace, indeed, seem'd not to know
An errand, why, or where to go,
To trot, to walk, or scamper swift—
In short, he seem'd a dog adrift;
His very tail, a listless thing,
With just an accidental swing,
Like rudder to the ripple veering,
When nobody on board is steering.