The poem
Speak of the North! A lonely moor Silent and dark and tractless swells, The waves of some wild streamlet pour Hurriedly through its ferny dells.
Profoundly still the twilight air, Lifeless the landscape; so we deem Till like a phantom gliding near A stag bends down to drink the stream.
And far away a mountain zone, A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies, And one star, large and soft and lone, Silently lights the unclouded skies.