Ii

“I wot, I wot.-- And is it not Right o’er the viney hill?--” “Yea: where the wild-grapes mat and make Penthouses of each bramble-brake, And dangle plumes of fragrant blooms: Where threads of sunbeams string the glooms With beaded gold; and flowers unfold Their eyes of blue;--and all night through Sings, wildly shrill, one whippoorwill.”