| Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917. |
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| 141. To William Sharp |
| | | By Clinton Scollard |
| | | | | (Fiona Mcleod) |
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| THE WAVES about Iona dirge, | |
| The wild winds trumpet over Skye; | |
| Shrill around Arran’s cliff-bound verge | |
| The gray gulls cry. | |
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| Spring wraps its transient scarf of green, | 5 |
| Its heathery robe, round slope and scar; | |
| And night, the scudding wrack between, | |
| Lights its lone star. | |
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| But you who loved these outland isles, | |
| Their gleams, their glooms, their mysteries. | 10 |
| Their eldritch lures, their druid wiles, | |
| Their tragic seas, | |
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| Will heed no more, in mortal guise, | |
| The potent witchery of their call, | |
| If dawn be regnant in the skies, | 15 |
| Or evenfall. | |
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| Yet, though where suns Sicilian beam | |
| The loving earth enfolds your form, | |
| I can but deem these coasts of dream | |
| And hovering storm | 20 |
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| Still thrall your spirit—that it bides | |
| By far Iona’s kelp-strewn shore, | |
| There lingering till time and tides | |
| Shall surge no more. | |
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