From the white-blossom’d sloe my dear Chloris requested
A sprig, her fair breast to adorn
(Burns, ‘On Chloris’)
The campfire smokes hung in the sky, long and white and bending in the winds, emanating from some deeply hidden quarter to the east of the mountain. Country known only by the clans that walked it.
How far you reckon?
Bill examined the luminous blue above the hills. Eight mile, he said. Ten.
(Rohan Wilson, The Roving Party)