Margaret's Song

Too soothe and mild your lowland airs
for one whose hope is gone:
I'm think of the little tarn,
Brown, very lone.

Would now the tall swift mists could lay
their wet grasp on my hair,
and the great natures of the hills
round me friendly were.

In vain! - for taking hills your plains
have spoilt my soul I think,
But would my feet were going down
Towards the brown tarn's brink.