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. Wander-Thirst
3. The Moors in Summer
4. A Thrush's Song
5. The Difference

Print

1560 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version