The Lament of Ian the Proud

What is this crying that I hear in the wind?

Is it the old sorrow and the old grief?

Or is it a new thing coming, a whirling leaf

About the gray hair of me who am weary and blind?

I know not what it is, but on the moor above the shore

There is a stone which the purple nets of heather bind,

And thereon is writ:

She will return no more.

O blown, whirling leaf, and the old grief,

And wind crying to me who am old and blind!