THE SWALING* OF THE MOOR

Oh! Moorland in September To love and to remember.

The air is still and sunlit, The moor's a russet bed, The bracken's turning beryl, The whortle leaves are red.

Here stand five sister pine-trees, Gold-nimbussed by the sun; And near, a slender rowan, Its scarlet reign begun.

A runnel near is singing A song of liquid glee, A saucy, joyous blackbird Tilts bubbling notes at me.

Then in a magic circle Seven thick white smokes upcurl, And forks of flame triumphant Like crimson flags unfurl.

They rise with grace, and slowly— Flower incense from the ling, Repaying summer splendour By an autumn offering.

Oh! Moorland in September To love and to remember.