THE still summer days
Pass in a proud procession down the glen.
Once more, the Earth rejoices
The heather blows and the burns sing,
And the hills smile through a golden haze.
But what shall bring
Laughter and life, or lilt of children's voices
To these old stones that will not wake again?
Is it a ghost that, drifting down the fell,
Rattles the shutters in the empty byre
And cries the whole night through "No more ! No more"?
Only the wind can tell --
The wind that sweeps across the echoing seas
To where, on some far shore,
Old people sit and dream beside the fire
And talk of days like these. . . .
A Deserted Croft, Loch Torridon, Wester Ross