Returning To Scafell Pike
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O this ancient, mountain resounds, it seems,
With the languid moans of the centuries.
I'm searching amongst the rough crags and stones,
For dream fragments I lost so long ago.
The sense of solitude is overwhelming.
I can only hear the wind; and lambs bleating.
The fog is deep and blinding; it remains
Until I glimpse the first welcoming signs
Of fragile, wild flora; that gently bathes
In a little light by verdant hillsides.
Perhaps, I've now found what I was looking
For: rare beauty amidst bleak, grey things.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş