  SPRIG o’ heather, you were born Where the mountains greet the morn, Just within the shadow dim Of the grey rocks harsh and grim, Just beside the torrent’s brim, You were born; I, a naturalist, can trace In thy sweet sky-lifted face, Signs and tokens of the place Clear as morn. Breath that comes from ’mong the firs, When the wet-faced sea-wind stirs In its flight, Night of gloom, and day of gold, Hill and vale, white flocks in fold, Ah, to-night, Dim my eyes grow as they see All thy dear heart shows to me, Blossom from across the sea, Heather White! |
|
