SONG OF THE MISTS

When Twilight beckons from the ghyll

We follow, follow up the hill;

Garth, holt, and meadow we caress,

Enwreathing all with loveliness;

Small, silver, mauve-blue butterflies

Are born of our brief summer sighs;

Frail harebells in our arms we bring,

To curtsey to the reigning ling;

Bairnies who watch for us to rise

Steal azure from us for their eyes;

And poets find their Land of Dreams

Lost in the moonlight of our streams.