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Lochanilaun

THIS is the image of my last content:

My soul shall be a little lonely lake,

So hidden that no shadow of man may break

The folding of its mountain battlement;

Only the beautiful and innocent

Whiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shake

Cool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wake

Of churned cloud in a howling wind's descent.

For there shall be no terror in the night

When stars that I have loved are born in me,

And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair;

But this shall be the end of my delight:—

That you, my lovely one, may stoop and see

Your image in the mirrored beauty there.

Francis Brett Young

[Index to poems in the collection by Francis Brett Young]

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