Scotlands Winter

Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill,

The sun looks from the

Helmed in his winter casket,

And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky.

The water at the

Sounds more hoarse and dull.

The miller's daughter walking

With frozen fingers soldered to her

Seems to be knocking Upon a hundred leagues of

With her light heels, and

Percy and Douglas dead,

And Bruce on his burial bed,

Where he lies white as

With wars and leprosy,

And all the kings

This land was kingless,

And all the singers

This land was songless,

This land that with its dead and living waits the Judgement Day.

But they, the powerless dead,

Listening can hear no

Than a hard tapping on the floorA little

Of common heels that do not

Whence they come or where they

And are

With their poor frozen life and shallow banishment.