It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving frees With a passion all in vain, - For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,...
Wilful we are in our infirmity Of childish questioning and discontent. Whate'er befalls us is divinely meant - Thou Truth the clearer for thy mystery! Make us to meet what is or is to be...
Sweet Singer that I loe the maist O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste O' hinnied sang, I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist In Heaven lang! ...
And you're the poet of this concern? I've seed your name in print A dozen times, but I'll be dern I'd 'a' never 'a' took the hint O' the size you are - fer I'd pictured you A kind of a tallish man -...