The stars are on the moving stream,
And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
A burnish’d length of wavy beam,
In an eel-like, spiral line below;
The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,
And naught is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katydid;
And the plaint of the wailing whippowil,