Margaret's Song

Too soothe and mild your lowland airs

for one whose hope is gone:

I'm think of the little tarn,

Brown, very lone.

Would now the tall swift mists could lay

their wet grasp on my hair,

and the great natures of the hills

round me friendly were.

In vain! - for taking hills your plains

have spoilt my soul I think,

But would my feet were going down

Towards the brown tarn's brink.