Poems (Henley)/Attadale, West Highlands

by William Ernest Henley

ATTADALE WEST HIGHLANDS To A. J.

A black and glassy float, opaque and still,The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep,Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deepThe calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill;Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze;The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke;The braes beyond—and when the ripple awoke,They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze.The air was hushed and dreamy. EvermoreA noise of running water whispered near.A straggling crow called high and thin. A birdTrilled from the birch-leaves. Round the shingled shore,Yellow with weed, there wandered, vague and clear,Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard.