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upon the tide one summer night, Dreamily watching how the moonbeams bright Made little broken rings of fairy light,

And vaguely lost in that half-conscious mood That steals upon the sense in solitude, I drifted near a shadowy island wood

Where all was silent, scarce a leaf was stirred— So still the air—when suddenly I heard The piercing, anguished cry as of a bird

In such distress it made the echoes ring And set the startled silence quivering— The wild appeal of some sweet feathered thing