But for you the Cuillin would be

an exact and serrated blue rampart

girdling with its march-wall

all that is in my barbarous heart



But for you the sand

that is in Talisker compact and white

would be a measureless plain to my expectations

and on it the spear desire would not turn back



But for you the oceans

in their unrest and their repose

would raise the wave crest of my mind

and settle it on a high serenity



And the brown brindled moorland

and my reason would co-extend

but you imposed on them an edict

above my own pain



And on a distant luxuriant summit

there blossomed the Tree of Strings

among its leafy branches your face

my reason and the likeness of a star