HIGH and alone I stood on Calton Hill Above the scene that was so dear to him Whose exile dreams of it made exile dim. October wooed the folded valleys till In mist they blurred, even as our eyes upfill Under a too-sweet memory; spires did swim, And gables rust-red, on the grey sea's brim— But on these heights the air was soft and still. Yet not all still: an alien breeze will turn Here, as from bournes in aromatic seas, As round old shrines a new-freed soul might yearn With incense of rich earthly reveries. Vanish the isles: Mist, exile, searching pain, But the brave soul is free, is home again! |