By J. A. Blaikie
169
iii
Westward each nightfall
When white lies the dew,
Where the stream makes a bright fall
Of moon-rays for you;
While the night wind goes sighing
Over crag, over hollow,
Like a ghostly replying
To the snowy owl s crying,
I the white waters follow;
With lips still sweet from sweet lips kist,
Like a spirit I pass
O'er the gleaming grass
Into the moon and the mist.
