Angus Armstrong
Ghostly through the drifting mist the lingering snow-wreaths glimmer,
And ghostly comes the lych-owl's hunting cry,
And ghostly with wet fleeces in the watery moon ashimmer,
One by one the grey sheep slowly pass me by.
One by one through bent and heather disappearing in the hollow,
Ghostly shadows down the grassy track they steal;
And I dread to see them passing, lest a ghost behind them follow—
A ghost from Flanders follow, dog at heel.
And ghostly comes the lych-owl's hunting cry,
And ghostly with wet fleeces in the watery moon ashimmer,
One by one the grey sheep slowly pass me by.
One by one through bent and heather disappearing in the hollow,
Ghostly shadows down the grassy track they steal;
And I dread to see them passing, lest a ghost behind them follow—
A ghost from Flanders follow, dog at heel.
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