Mist

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!’