What’s going on with the fire thing?

The Isle of Bute, Western Scotland has wild fires.

My heart lies in the Isles.

Really pissed off now :o(

 

 

ERE yet dim twilight brightened into day,

Or waned the silver morning star away,

Shedding its last, lone, melancholy smile,

Above the mountain-tops of far Argyll;

Ere yet the solan’s wing had brushed the sea,

Or issued from its cell the mountain bee;

As dawn beyond the orient Cumbraes shone,

Thy northern slope, Byrone,

From Ascog’s rocks, o’erflung with woodland bowers,

With scarlet fuchsias, and faint myrtle flowers,

My steps essayed; brushing the diamond dew

From the soft moss, lithe grass, and harebell blue.

Up from the heath aslant the linnet flew

Startled, and rose the lark on twinkling wing,

And soared away, to sing

A farewell to the severing shades of night,

A welcome to the morning’s earliest light.

Thy summit gained, how tranquilly serene,

Beneath, outspread that panoramic scene

Of continent and isle, and lake and sea,

And tower and town, hill, vale, and spreading tree,

And rock and ruin tinged with amethyst,

Half seen, half hidden by the lazy mist,

Volume on volume, which had vaguely wound

The far-off hills around,

And now rolled downwards; till on high were seen,

Begirt with sombre larch, their foreheads green.