Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/41

 IX

TO K. M.

of the moorland bare

And honest country winds, you were;

The silver-skimming rain you took;

And loved the floodings of the brook,

Dew, frost and mountains, fire and seas,

Tumultuary silences,

Winds that in darkness fifed a tune,

And the high-riding, virgin moon.

And as the berry, pale and sharp,

Springs on some ditch's counterscarp

In our ungenial, native north—

You put your frosted wildings forth,