John Stuart Blackie (1809–1895)

IN the lone glen the silver lake doth sleep;

Sleeps the white cloud upon the sheer black hill:

All moorland sounds a solemn silence keep;

I only hear the tiny trickling rill

’Neath the red moss. Athwart the dim gray pall

That veils the day a dusky fowl may fly;

But, on this bleak brown moor, if thou shalt call

For men, a spirit will sooner make reply.

Come hither, thou whose agile mind doth flit

From talk to talk, and tempt the pensive mood.

Converse with men makes sharp the glittering wit,

But God to man doth speak in solitude.

Come, sit thee down upon this old gray stone;

Men learn to think, and feel, and pray, alone.