AT QUEENSFERRY — To W. G. S.

The blackbird sang, the skies were clear and clean

We bowled along a road that curved a spine

Superbly sinuous and serpentine

Thro’ silent symphonies of summer green.

Sudden the Forth came on us — sad of mien,

No cloud to colour it, no breeze to line:

A sheet of dark, dull glass, without a sign

Of life or death, two spits of sand between.

Water and sky merged blank in mist together,

The Fort loomed spectral, and the Guardship's spars

Traced vague, black shadows on the shimmery glaze:

We felt the dim, strange years, the grey, strange weather,

The still, strange land, unvexed of sun or stars,

Where Lancelot rides clanking thro’ the haze.