Half their flavour would pass by.
Moored on the rifted rock,
And so not carrying the tree away
Pulling wry faces,
Met the fire smouldering there
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And miles to go before I sleep,
White with blossoms honey-sweet
The heath this night must be my bed,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Moored on the rifted rock,
And so not carrying the tree away
Pulling wry faces,
Met the fire smouldering there
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And miles to go before I sleep,
White with blossoms honey-sweet
The heath this night must be my bed,