Chapter VIII

Now with a giddy whirl the wheeling prow
Veering around points with the downward tide;
Then Waban’s paddle cuts the glassy flow;
The mimic whirlpools pass on either side;
The surface cleaves, the waters boil below;--
The cot, the glade, the forests backward glide;
Until the shadows, moving as they flew,
Closed round the green and shut the roof from view.