Poems (Stuart)/The Cloudberry
THE CLOUDBERRY.
Give me no coil of dæmon flowers—Pale Messalines that faint and broodThrough the spent secret twilight hoursOn their strange feasts of blood.
Give me wild things of moss and peat—The gipsy flower that bravely goes,The heather's little hard, brown feet,And the black eyes of sloes.
But most of all the cloudberryThat offers in her clean, white cupThe melting snows—the cloudberry!Where the great winds go up
To the hushed peak whose shadow fillsThe air with silence calm and wide—She lives, the Dian of the hills,And the streams course beside.