Mist poem by Andrew Lang, Scottish poets, Poetry

Mist, though I love thee not, who puttest down
Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule,
At least on fly, in mere or river-pool
When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown,
And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown,
The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to cool
The blatant declamations of the fool
Who raves reciting through the heather brown.

Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass
Who cries ‘How lovely!’ and who does not spare
When light and shadow on the mountain pass,—
Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair,
O’er rock, and glade, and glen,—to shout, the Ass,
To me, to me the Poet, ‘Oh, look there!’

Biographies of writers Biographies of Poets

Poetry Music and Songs

Read poems by Andrew Lang:

Ode to Golf     Boat Song     The Battle of Killiecrankie

Culloden     Lost Love      Mist

The Poets Apology     Rob Roy

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Mist

Scottish - Crafts Mist

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