Elizabeth Delaney


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Those Mountains

The wild mountains are calling me again.
Did I try to cast them off?
Those dark blue hills of my youth?
I still lyricise about heather,
The birks and the deep cold lochs.
But I seem to have adjusted my love
To fit, elegantly, these smooth, green swards
That have become my life, the yellow
Harvests that bask on sunlit, warm plateaus,

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