Inversnaid

This darksome burn, horseback brown,His rollrock highroad roaring down,In coop and in comb the fleece of his foamFlutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróthTurns and twindles over the brothOf a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dewAre the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereftOf wet and of wildness? Let them be left,O let them be left, wildness and wet;Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.