At Queensferry

The blackbird sang, the skies were clear and cleanWe bowled along a road that curved a spineSuperbly sinuous and serpentineThro' silent symphonies of summer green.Sudden the Forth came on us—sad of mien,No cloud to colour it, no breeze to line:A sheet of dark, dull glass, without a signOf life or death, two spits of sand between.Water and sky merged blank in mist together,The Fort loomed spectral, and the Guardship's sparsTraced vague, black shadows on the shimmery glaze:We felt the dim, strange years, the grey, strange weather,The still, strange land, unvexed of sun or stars,Where Lancelot rides clanking thro' the haze.