No boats oar slow, no barges pass
Down the quiet gray canal:
The reed & the rush, & the cotton-grass,
Stand undisturb'd and tall.
No sound of unrest there alarms
The branch & brown mosses stretch their arms.

A swallow shot falls at my feet:
I muse: If blood must flow in sylvan world
At least [blank ]
But turn on a stagnant tide [?]