Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/42

18 And on the heath, afar from man,

A strong and bitter virgin ran.

The berry ripened keeps the rude

And racy flavour of the wood.

And you that loved the empty plain

All redolent of wind and rain,

Around you still the curlew sings—

The freshness of the weather clings—

The maiden jewels of the rain

Sit in your dabbled locks again.