To the Highlands he came, boyishly running.
There was clear water there, greenery without form,
a waste of stones, nature’s academy.
And so adventurously he rode and fought.
This was a fresh land to put his stamp on.
This was in the end his hoped-for home.
He marched and marched and then turned back and marched.
The dizzying snow blossomed against his face.
He was the ghost so powder-white and dumb.
He turned away, his horse obscured by snow,
his torn shirt a sail, the sun so warm
and still adventurous on his secret boat.
But he fattened steadily far from that gaunt waste.
To love a home is not to find it true.
He drank and drank in that intriguing blue
of Italy, the rich luxurious land.
Thin sheep cropped the rocks, the tinkling streams
flowed to the sea, the port, the bitter wine.