By Andrew Lang

Mist, though I love thee not, who puttest down
Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule,
At least on fly, in mere or river-pool
When 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 cool
The blatant declamations of the fool
Who raves reciting through the heather brown.

Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass
Who cries ‘How lovely!’ and who does not spare
When 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!’

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