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The frog, with reckoning leap, enjoys apart,
Till now and then the woodcock frights his heart
With brushing down to dip his dainty bill.
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.
As I stood thus, a neighbouring wood of elms
Filling the solitude with panting tongues;
At which the pines woke up
Shaking their choral locks; and on the place
There fell a shade as on an awe-struck face;
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.