Cool and scented and sweet
The mist ran over the moor,
A witch upon light white feet,
Subtle and swift and sure.

Laughing she lifted her cloak
At a dawn-wind's word, and lo!
The heath on the hillside woke
And burned with a wine-red glow.

Running she raised her arm,
And under the curve of her breast
Was the wild thyme's purple charm
And the bluebell's blue confessed.

She waved her silver wand
As the wind made play on the wold,
And here and there was a frond
Of the bracken suddenly gold.

Silver sandalled and crowned,
Like a queen to the West she swept,
But the touch of her foot on the ground
Was a joy that the moorland kept.