The frog, with reckoning leap, enjoys apart, Till now and then the woodcock frights his heart A little bridge there is, a one-railed plank; Sometimes a poet from that bridge might see A Nymph reach downwards, holding by a bough With tresses o'er her brow, And with her white back stoop The pushing stream to scoop In a green gourd cup, shining sunnily. THE CLOUD. A FRAGMENT. As I stood thus, a neighbouring wood of elms And overhead, like a portentous rim Pulled over the wide world, to make all dim, A grave gigantic cloud came hugely uplifting him. It passed with it's slow shadow; and I saw Struck the all-coloured arch of his great eye, Scored on the ground it's conquering line And the quick birds, for scorn of the great cloud, Like children after fear, were merry and loud. |