Poets

I SAT upon a windy mountain height, On a huge rock outstanding from the rest; The sun had sunk behind a neighboring crest, Leaving chill shade; but looking down, my sight

LOVE we the warmth and light of tropic lands, The strange bright fruit, the feathery fanspread leaves, The glowing mornings and the mellow eves, The strange shells scattered on the golden sands,

"Why should not wattle do    For mistletoe?" Asked one -- they were but two --    Where wattles grow.