I Had Not Tried The Wine That Ancients Made
I had not tried the wine that ancients made,
And had not heard of Ossian’s old tune;
So why, on earth, I seem to see the glade,
And, in the skies -- the bloody Scottish moon?
And the call-over of a raven with a harp
I faintly hear in that silence, full of fright,
And, spread by winds, the winter woolen scarves
Of knights are flashing in the red moonlight!
I had received the blessing to inherit