As I walk the misty hill
Not a note of any birdNor any motion’s hint is heard,Save from soaking thickets roundTrickle or water’s rushing sound,And from ghostly trees the dripOf runnel dews or whispering slipOf leaves, which in a body launchListlessly from the stagnant branchTo strew the marl, already strown,With litter sodden as its own,A rheum, like blight, hangs on the…