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Echoes of a Highland Song
By William Brendan McPhillips
21st CenturyThese trees, in front of me, grew on the day
When Wordsworth stopped to listen, on his way
Across the Highlands, to a woman sing
In melancholy solitude and bring
The circle of enchantment to a place
Where, on this wet and windy hill, I trace
The trail of all unconscious gifts we give
To one another in the way we live.
We call such moments lucky and they are,
Like being there to know a falling star,
Or here, to hear the echoes of a voice
Once heard in Scotland and in it rejoice
That back in England, Wordsworth, in his pen
Brought it to me in Ireland and again
Across the Hudson to this windy hill
Where, on this night, I hear her singing still.
DayPoems Poem No. 2280
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