Dorothy Una Ratcliffe

The Road

Over the moor in the velvet dusk
    Mysteriously it lies.
White thro' the heath and the swart fir woods
    White 'neath the twilit skies.

'Tis hid in the folds of the purple hills,
    Seeking a fern-fringed burn:
But it mounts again, then is lost once more,
    With a tremulous, misting turn.

Where blue mists gather beneath the moon
    It shows as a silvern stream.
O Path of Life, you are out of sight,
    And lost in a wistful dream.

JUGGER HOWE DALE.