For dear to me the crags—the weather-worn;
The slopes of green, the waving woodland towers
Whose crested pageantry of leaves adorn
The shadowed graves of faded summer hours.
VII
Full well I know the belts of larch that fringe
The dark verge of the lonely moor, which seems
The limit of the world, touched with the tinge
Of dying light, and burned with day’s last beams.