When, for the night deserted, it assumes
A character of quiet more profound
Than pathless wastes.
Once, when those summer months,
Where flown, and autumn brought its annual show
Of oars with oars contending, sails with sails,
Upon Windander's spacious breast, it chanced
That—after I had left a flower-decked room
(Whose in-door pastime, lighted up, survived
To a late hour), and spirits overwrought