POETRY.
VALLEY OF MEGGAT.
ALL I ask is Meggat Vale, Green of her earth and the gleam ef swift rain falling, Great wind-driven clouds that sail Over the crest of her hills, the curlews' calling Fashioning a path from the hilltop to heaven or nigh it, Voice of the wind on the heights and the river, the cottages by it, Scent of the odorous peat and the quiet, the joy of the quiet.
All I seek—a cottage there, Bed for sound sleeping and books for quiet reading, Mind at rest and simple fare, Windows that look to green slopes where flocks are feeding, Milk for my drinking, peat fire and a girdle for baking, Moonlight at even and winds down the vale a wild melody making, Morn and the bleating of lambs at my waking, the joy of my waking.
All I crave—a little space Granted of days of great peace and nights for sleeping; At the last a lonely place, Solemn and calm, very high, with no one weeping, Men and the liieggat and life in the far valley lying, I and the silence above and the doubt and the differences flying, God and my spirit made one at my dying, the joy of my dying.
M.
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