Александр Смит (Alexander Smith)

Inversnaid

LIKE clouds or streams we wandered on at will,
Three glorious days, till, near our journey’s end,
As down the moorland road we straight did wend,
To Wordsworth’s ‘Inversnaid,’ talking to kill
The cold and cheerless drizzle in the air,
’Bove me I saw, at pointing of my friend,
An old fort, like a ghost, upon the hill,
Stare in blank misery through the blinding rain,
So human-like it seemed in its despair,
So stunned with grief,—long gazed at it we twain.
Weary and damp we reached our poor abode;
I, warmly seated in the chimney-nook,
Still saw that old fort o’er the moorland road
Stare through the rain with strange woe-wildered look.

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