Love and Vision
Never in jewel or wine the light
Burned like the purple heather;
And some is palest pink, some white,
Swaying and dancing together.
Every stem is sharp and clear.
Every bell is ringing.
No doubt, some tune we do not hear
For the thrushes' sleepy singing.
Over all, like the bloom on a grape.
The lilac seeding-grasses
Have made a haze, vague, without shape.
For the wind to change as it passes.
Under all is the budding ling.
Grey-green with scarlet notches.
Bossed with many a mossy thing.
And gold with lichen-blotches.
Here and there slim rushes stand
Aslant as carried lances.
I saw it, and called it fairyland;
You never saw it, the chance is?
Brown moors and stormy skies that kiss
At eve in rainy weather
You saw—but what the heather is
Saw I, who love the heather.
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