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This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His
rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of
his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
A
windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair
to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the
groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks,
flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let
them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live
the weeds and the wilderness yet.
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