“My dazzled sight he oft deceives,

A Brother of the dancing leaves.”

He looks on the meadows sleeping in the spring sunshine:

“The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising,

There are forty feeding like one!”

He beholds the far-off torrent pouring down Ben Cruachan:

“Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;

Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,