Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler’s eye 5
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek’st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 10
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink