Mist

Between the grey hill and the sky The chill west wind goes wandering by Where mists upon the moorland lie, White as wool, from the far-off sea, Salt as tears on stone and tree, Drifting and driving silently. Awhile the lifting mist-wreaths show Dim shadowy shapes that come and go, Hound, horse and rider, to and fro, - Like ghosts from some forsaken hall Where the winds pipe, and the rains fall On broken roof and crumbling wall. And down the dough, where all alone You heard the hidden streamlet's moan Sobbing over grass and stone, Floats, as from elfin hunting-grounds Beyond the world's remotest bounds, The faint lost music of the hounds.