Far o'er the bow,
Amid the drowsy noon,
Souhegan, creeping slow,
Appeareth soon.[1]
Methinks that by a strict behavior
I could elicit back the brightest star
That hides behind a cloud.
I have rolled near some other spirit's path,
And with a pleased anxiety have felt
Its purer influence on my opaque mass,
But always was I doomed to learn, alas!
I had scarce changèd its sidereal time.
Gray sedulously cultivated poetry, but the plant would not thrive. His life seems to have needed some more sincere and ruder experience.
Occasionally we rowed near enough to a cottage to see the sunflowers before the door, and the seed-vessels of the poppy, like small goblets filled with the waters of Lethe, but without disturbing the sluggish household.
Driving the small sandpiper before us.
FOG[2]
Thou drifting meadow of the air,
