THE CLOUDBERRY.

Give me no coil of daemon flowers —

Pale Messalines that faint and brood

Through the spent secret twilight hours

On 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 cloudberry

That offers in her clean, white cup

The melting snows — the cloudberry!

Where the great winds go up

To the hushed peak whose shadow fills

The air with silence calm and wide —

She lives, the Dian of the hills,

And the streams course beside.