Within my heart a worm had long been hid. I knew it not when I went down and chid Because some servants of my inner house Had not, I found, of late been doing well, But then I spied the horror hideous...
What shall I be?--I will be a knight Walled up in armour black, With a sword of sharpness, a hammer of might. And a spear that will not crack-- So black, so blank, no glimmer of light...
I envy the tree-tops that shake so high In winds that fill them full of heavenly airs; I envy every little cloud that shares With unseen angels evening in the sky; I envy most the youngest stars that lie...
Stately, lang-robit, an' steppin at ease, The rich men gaed up the temple ha'; Hasty, an' grippin her twa baubees, The widow cam efter, booit an' sma'.
Forth to his study the sculptor goes In a mood of lofty mirth: "Now shall the tongues of my carping foes Confess what my art is worth! In my brain last night the vision arose,...
There cam a man to oor toon-en', And a waesome carl was he, Snipie-nebbit, and crookit-mou'd, And gleyt o' a blinterin ee. Muckle he spied, and muckle he spak, But the owercome o' his sang,...
When things are holding wonted pace In wonted paths, without a trace Or hint of neighbouring wonder, Sometimes, from other realms, a tone, A scent, a vision, swift, alone, Breaks common life asunder....
From out a windy cleft there comes a gaze Of eyes unearthly, which go to and fro Upon the people's tumult, for below The nations smite each other: no amaze Troubles their liquid rolling, or affrays...
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out! You stare In the air As if crying Beware, Always looking what I am about: I hate to be watched; I will blow you out!" ...
They are blind, and they are dead: We will wake them as we go; There are words have not been said, There are sounds they do not know: We will pipe and we will sing-- With the Music and the Spring...
The rich man sat in his father's seat-- Purple an' linen, an' a'thing fine! The puir man lay at his yett i' the street-- Sairs an' tatters, an' weary pine!
Thy world is made to fit thine own, A nursery for thy children small, The playground-footstool of thy throne, Thy solemn school-room, Father of all! When day is done, in twilight's gloom,...
Cry out upon the crime, and then let slip The dogs of hate, whose hanging muzzles track The bloody secret; let the welkin crack Reverberating, while ye dance and skip...
A lang-backit, spilgie, fuistit auld carl Gangs a' nicht rakin athort the warl Wi' a pock on his back, luikin hungry an' lean, His crook-fingert han' aye followin his e'en:...