I love to watch the tiny milk-white spires That on the chestnut branches lift their head; I love to see the rowan growing red With clusters bright as frosty winter fires.
But better still I love you, firs that crest The lonely hill above the moaning firth, Beside the path where bluebells gently nod.
To your grey arms, ere sunset leaves the West, I can confide each sorrow at its birth, For you have known the waves and storms of God.
SING me one more villanelle, Light as elfin foot that brushes Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.
Come where woodland spices smell, Where the wild rose faintly flushes, Sing me one more villanelle.
Rare as snowy heather bell, Sweet as melody of thrushes Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.
When the shade creeps up the fell Mid the parting sun’s last blushes, Sing me one more villanelle.
Sing it to the curfew knell, Where the streamlet plays with rushes Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.
Let it breathe no sad farewell, Only mirth with silent hushes. Sing me one more villanelle Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.
THAT pure and shy retreat A Tartar would have spared, But not that lawyer cur from Inverness, Who thought its sylvan virgin loveliness Would bring him gold if rudely bared And hawked upon the street.
There children checked their race And crept on tiptoed feet, Lest they should break upon the rainbow rings Of fairies glinting through transparent wings, Or kindly wizard come to meet A maid with lovelorn face.
No snow nor stinging sleet Could chill the fairies’ bath; So close the vaulting was with fir and larch Which laid deep carpets underneath their arch, That on the fairies’ silent path No blast could ever beat.
Mid foam more white than fleece The waterfall rang sweet, It made each rocky cup a rippling well, It coyly dived and peeped along the dell, Then ran the rising sea to greet, And greeting found its peace.
And now the cold and heat Scourge all the glen with ire; The broken boughs have choked the sobbing stream, The silver birch is but a sodden beam, The fairies’ path is sunk in mire, The moss has left their seat.
Flash sorrow and disdain For this most sordid feat, You whom Burns taught to love a daisy’s face, And Scott to love the mountains’ gloom and grace; Or say they scattered chaff for wheat, And sang their songs in vain.