A black and glassy float, opaque and still, <br />The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep, <br />Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deep <br />The calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill; <br />Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze; <br />The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke; <br />The braes beyond--and when the ripple awoke, <br />They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze. <br />The air was hushed and dreamy. Evermore <br />A noise of running water whispered near. <br />A straggling crow called high and thin. A bird <br />Trilled from the birch-leaves. Round the shingled shore, <br />Yellow with weed, there wandered, vague and clear, <br />Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard.<br /><br />William Ernest Henley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/attadale-west-highlands/
