———

They touch me light with their finger tips

And lay little snatches of song on my lips,

And swift I am gone where the hill-streams flow,

Where the pit-lark soars and the gentians blow.

The tapers of blossoms flame under the tree

And the pilgrim road unfolds for me,

Lifting away where the hill-folk keep

The gardens and cloisters and shrines of the Steep.

———

In charmed ways my feet are set:

By what fair host is the palmer met

And borne away to the great white stills?

Is it only the wind that comes down from the hills?

Columbine in the Hills.

A carnival gladdens the hills in June,

And Columbine waltzes a gypsy tune;

Or deep in the pleasance, happily met,

She whirls with a gay little pirouette,

Where the long trees lean in a twilight trance,

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