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 deep

The 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. Evermore

A noise of running water whispered near.

A straggling crow called high and thin. A bird

Trilled from the birch-leaves. Round the shingled shore,

Yellow with weed, there wandered, vague and clear,

Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard.