For all the gold they delve and share,
The goblins of the Ardise hills
Can horde no treasure like your hair.
The swirling tide, the lonely gulls,
The sweet low wood-winds that rejoice—
No sound nor echo of the sea
But hath tradition of your voice.
The crimson leaves, the yellow fruit,
The basking woodlands mile on mile—
No gleam in all the russet hills