What witchery doth to thy cold skies belong,
What spells are thine, all other lands apart,
Which cling so closely, madly to the heart?
Is it such wandering ghosts as hover here,
Or thine own tireless dreams that keep thee young and dear?
II
A BOG-FILLED VALLEY
Sick little valley, meted out for sadness,
Bent thorn-trees sparsely above your brown floods rise,
Brimming full your streams are, brimming full, yet holding
Little joyous commerce with the sun and skies.