Lascelles Abercrombie - Margaret's Song lyrics

Too soothe and mild your lowland airs for one whose hope is gone: I'm think of the little tarn, Brown, very lone. Would now the tall swift mists could lay their wet grasp on my hair, and the great natures of the hills round me friendly were. In vain! - for taking hills your plains have spoilt my soul I think, But would my feet were going down Towards the brown tarn's brink.