Poem by Dorothy Una Ratcliffe

Song of the Mists

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.

1. Saadi and the Rose
2. The Road
3. The Moors in Summer
4. Satan and I
5. The Song of Nidderdale

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