Classic Poem

There's no bloom on the heather,
There's no flower on the furze;
They're whispering and crying together
Whenever the wet wind stirs.

The fire on the hearth is failing
And night is a fearsome thing,
For the wind creeps through it, wailing,
And there's none to bid it sing.

There's dun mist on the moor
And gray mist on the sea;
There's darkness in my door,
For ye cannot come to me!