And, save the wagon rocking round,
The landscape sleeps without a sound.
The breeze is stopp’d, the lazy bough
Hath not a leaf that danceth now;
The taller grass upon the hill,
And spider’s threads are standing still;
The feathers dropp’d from moorhen’s wing,
Which to the water’s surface cling,
Are steadfast, and as heavy seem,
As stones beneath them in the stream;