THE garden wears her summer gold,
The lizard leaves the stone—
And oh ! To be, as once of old,
Content with these alone!
Yet still to the misty Highlands
My questing spirit flees—
To a land of clouds where a grey veil shrouds
The haunted Hebrides.
Where the raindrops slash and shimmer
And the wind blows salt and free
And the little islands glimmer
In a shadowy mist of sea.
Where the great, wise hills forever
Lean on the sky's broad breast,
And the days bring high endeavour
And the nights a starlit rest.
Where the sea-birds cry in the white dawn
And dip on shining wings;
And life is a wild, sweet hunger
And an ache at the heart of things.
Where the moors are washed with shadows
And the heather drenched in dew,
And hills and sky at evening
Blend to a hazy blue.
And a man may find old dreams again
And walk with quiet eyes
Where the black crags of the Cuillin
Challenge the sombre skies.
The garden wears her summer gold,
The lizard leaves the stone—
And oh! To be, as once of old,
Content with these alone!
