Ii

Not till its dark halloo is hushed, And where wild waters rushed,-- Like some hoof’d terror underneath its whip And spur of foam,--remains A ghostly glass, hill-framed; whereover stains Of moony mists and rains, And stealthy starbeams, still as spectres, slip; Shall I--with thoughts that take Unto themselves the ache Of silence as a sound--from sleep awake.