Littell's Living Age/Volume 155/Issue 1999/Love and Vision

love is more than life to me, And you look on and wonder In what can that enchantment be    You think I labor under.

Yet you, too, have you never gone Some wet and yellow even Where russet moors reach on and on    Beneath a windy heaven? —

Brown moors which at the western edge A watery sunset brushes With misty rays yon sullen ledge Of cloud casts down on the rushes.

You see no more; but shade your eyes, Forget the showery weather, Forget the wet, tempestuous skies, And look upon the heather.

Oh, fairyland, fairyland! It sparkles, lives, and dances; By every gust swayed down and fanned; And every raindrop glances.

Never in jewel or wine the light Burned like the purple heather; And some is the palest pink, some white, Swaying and dancing together.

Every stem is sharp and clear, Every bell is ringing, No doubt, some tune we do not hear For the thrushes’ sleepy singing.

Over all, like the bloom on a grape, The lilac seeding-grasses Have made a haze, vague, without shape, For the wind to change as it passes.

Under all is the budding ling Grey-green with scarlet notches, Bossed with many a mossy thing, And gold with lichen-blotches.

Here and there slim rushes stand Aslant like carried lances. I saw it and called it fairyland; You never saw it, the chance is.

Brown moors and stormy skies that kiss At eve in rainy weather — Pronounce on that — what the heather is    I know, for I saw the heather.