SONG OF THE MISTS
Reading edition
When Twilight beckons from the ghyll We follow, follow up the hill; Garth, holt, and meadow we caress, Enwreathing all with loveliness; Small, silver, mauve-blue butterflies Are born of our brief summer sighs; Frail harebells in our arms we bring, To curtsey to the reigning ling; Bairnies who watch for us to rise Steal azure from us for their eyes; And poets find their Land of Dreams Lost in the moonlight of our streams.
THE HOLE OF HORCUM, NEAR WHITBY.