HIGH above the Highland glen, Flamed upon the purple heather, Colours never mixed of men, Tints no painter put together. And I guessed that where he trod, Quaffing his Olympian fill, Rudely had some reeling god Spilt his wine-cup on the hill. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THOMAS MACDONAGH by FRANCIS LEDWIDGE SHILOH; A REQUIEM by HERMAN MELVILLE POLITICAL GREATNESS by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 1 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT IN THE HIGH HILLS by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE THE CANTERBURY TALES: THE PARDONER'S INTRODUCTION AND PROLOGUE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |