From Upland Slopes I See The Cows File By, Lowing, Great-Chested, Down The Homeward Trail, By Dusking Fields And Meadows Shining Pale With Moon-Tipped Dandelions. Flickering High, A Peevish Night-Hawk In The Western Sky Beats Up Into The Lucent Solitudes, Or Drops With Griding Wing. The Stilly Woods Grow Dark And Deep And Gloom Mysteriously. Cool Night-Winds Creep, And Whisper In Mine Ear The Homely Cricket Gossips At My Feet. From Far-Off Pools And Wastes Of Reeds I Hear, Clear And Soft-Piped, The Chanting Frogs Break Sweet In Full Pandean Chorus. One By One Shine Out The Stars, And The Great Night Comes On.