There is no bard in all the choir, / Nor Homer's self, the poet sire, / […] / Nor Collins' verse of tender pain, / Nor Byron's clarion of disdain, / […] / Not one of all can put in verse, / Or to this presence could rehearse, / The sights and voices ravishing / The boy knew on the hills in spring, […] A figurative use.

Mountains lower, valleys fill with haze, the summer air grows clear, piercing and Novembral.

, page 35 We walk perversely with God, and he will walk crookedly toward us.

After a fortnight's careful nursing my leg healed and I was packed off in a tilly (utility truck) with my kit-bag to join my comrades at Fairmilehead.