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. On Early Rising
2. Bargaining
3. Song of Good-Bye
4. Wander-Thirst
5. Rushes

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