Snaw
Snaw,
Dingin' on slaw,
Quait, quait, far nae win's blaw,
Haps up bonnily the frost-grippit lan'.
Quait, quait, the bare trees stan',
Raisin' caul' fingers tae the deid, leiden lift,
Keppin' a' they can as the flakes doon drift.
Still, still,
The glen an' the hill,
Nae mair they echo the burnie's bit v'ice,
That's tint, death-silent, awa' neth the ice.
Soun'less, the warl' is row'd up in sleep,
Dreamless an' deep,
Dreamless an' deep.
Niver a move but the saft doon-glidin'
O' wee, wee fairies on fite steeds ridin',
Ridin', ridin', the haill earth hidin',
Till a'thing's awa'
An there's naething but snaw,
Snaw.
John M. Caie (Scottish Poet, 1878-1949)
I think that the Scots language is one of the most beautiful.
[daily log: walking, 7km]