Mist
MIST, though I love thee not, who puttest downTrout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule,At least on fly, in mere or river-poolWhen fogs have fallen, and the air is lown,And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown,The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to coolThe blatant declamations of the foolWho raves reciting through the heather brown.
Much do I bar the matron, man, or lassWho cries ‘How lovely!’ and who does not spareWhen light and shadow on the mountain pass,—Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair,O’er rock, and glade, and glen,—to shout, the Ass,To me, to me the Poet, ‘Oh, look there!’