So Wingate found it, riding at ease, The cloud-edge lifting over the trees, A white-sail glimmer beyond the rise, A sugar-castle that strained the eyes, Then mounting, mounting, the shining spectre Risen at last from the drop of nectar, The cloud expanding, the topsails swelling, The doll’s house grown to a giant’s dwelling, Porches and gardens and ells and wings Linking together like puzzle-rings, Till the parts dissolved in a steadfast whole, And Wingate saw it, body and soul.

Saw it completely, and saw it gleam, The full-rigged vessel, the sailing dream, The brick and stone that were somehow quick With a ghost not native to stone and brick, The name held high and the gift passed on From Wingate father to Wingate son, No longer a house but a conjur-stone That could hate and sorrow and hold its own As long as the seed of Elspeth Mackay Could mix its passion with Wingate clay And the wind and the river had memories.⁠ ⁠…