The Western Fells

So I turned my back on the western waves

And made for the mountains far inland,

With a rambler's pack and a crooked staff

And a leather bottle in my hand.

The day was hot and the road was hard

As I crossed that dusty western plain,

By the field where the hedgehog whined

By the foxgloves in the grassy lane

At the end of the day I came to the dale

Where the mountains soar and the herdwicks graze,

At Ennerdale Lake, by the green man's chair,

I came to the joining of the ways...

In the dale of the hawk and the vampire dog,

I followed the lake my feet were sore,

By the pitching screes of the Anglers Crag

Till I came to rest by a great nailed door...

I asked for bread, I asked for milk,

I sought for a place to rest my head,

At midnight heard the swish of silk

Of the ghost that walks by the travellers bed.