Scottish Poetry Selection
NocturneA sense of stolen joy is mine
To leave the village sleeping,
And with the music of my feet
To wake the echoes down the street,
Where ne'er a light is peeping.
'Tis fine to hear the steeple clocks
With weary voice and hollow
Discharge their conscientious twelves
As if they knew within themselves
Of easier hours to follow.
Beneath the dim poetic moon
The houses seem enchanted;
Their unromantic yesterday
Is charmed a thousand years away,
And each is beauty-haunted.
And even the thoughts that come to me
The strangest shapes are taking,
And smack of dream and shadow too
As if the night would claim her due
From slumber or from waking!
Where else would you like to go in Scotland?
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