more, once more again
On me, from city cares who fly, Lochleven, like a loving eye, Looks round the shoulder of the hills, And all life’s artificial ills Pass from me with their pain!
The smoke will leave a stain; In absence of the cleansing shower The dust will dim the freshest flower: Happy the heart on whom the dust Of active life (for blow it must) Grows not a thing in grain!
Nor are those ills in vain: They come upon our passions here Like winter rigors on the year — The purer are the daisies’ dyes When spring comes round, bluer the skies, And welcomer the rain!
To some the breezy main; To some the moors and burns; to some Who cannot go, sweet thoughts will come; To me, enfranchisement from ills When gleams, as now, between the hills Lochleven o’er the plain!