The blackbird sang, the skies were clear and clean.
We bowled along a road that curved its spine
Superbly sinuous and serpentine
Thro' silent symphonies of glowing green.
Sudden the Firth came on us — sad of mien.
No cloud to colour it, no breeze to line,
A sheet of dark, dull glass, without a sign
Of life and death, two shelves of sand between.
Water and sky merged blank in mist together.
The fort loomed spectral, and the guard-ship's spars
Traced vague, black shadows on the shimmery glaze.
We felt the dim strange years, the grey strange weather,
The still strange land unvexed of sun or stars,
Where Lancelot rides clanking thro' the haze.