Between the grey hill and the sky
The chill west wind goes wandering by
Where mists upon the moorland lie,

White as wool, from the far-off sea,
Salt as tears on stone and tree,
Drifting and driving silently.

Awhile the lifting mist-wreaths show
Dim shadowy shapes that come and go,
Hound, horse and rider, to and fro, -

Like ghosts from some forsaken hall
Where the winds pipe, and the rains fall
On broken roof and crumbling wall.

And down the dough, where all alone
You heard the hidden streamlet's moan
Sobbing over grass and stone,

Floats, as from elfin hunting-grounds
Beyond the world's remotest bounds,
The faint lost music of the hounds.