#ScottishWriters
Come to me, come to me, O my God; Come to me everywhere! Let the trees mean thee, and the g… And the water and the air! For thou art so far that I often…
Shepherd, on before thy sheep, Hear thy lamb that bleats behind! Scarce the track I stumbling keep… Through my thin fleece blows the w… Turn and see me, Son of Man!
Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet… It is thy Duty waiting thee witho… Rise from thy knees in hope, the h… A hand doth pull thee-it is Provi… Open thy door straightway, and get…
January 26, 1885 Gordon, the self-refusing, Gordon, the lover of God, Gordon, the good part choosing, Welcome along the road!
If I were a monk, and thou wert a… Pacing it wearily, wearily, Twixt chapel and cell till day wer… Wearily, wearily– How would it fare with these heart…
Oh, melancholy fragment of the nig… Drawing thy lazy web against the s… Thou shouldst have waited till the… With kindred glooms to build thy f… Sublime amid the ruins of the ligh…
A gentle wind, of western birth On some far summer sea, Wakes daisies in the wintry earth, Wakes hopes in wintry me. The sun is low; the paths are wet,
Lord, what is man That thou art mindful of him! Though in creation’s van, Lord, what is man! He wills less than he can,
Now in the dark of February rains… Poor lovers of the sunshine, sprin… The earthy fields are full of hidd… And March’s violets bud along the… Therefore with joy believe in what…
A pool of broken sunbeams lay Upon the passage-floor, Radiant and rich, profound and gay As ever diamond bore. Small, flitting hands a handkerchi…
The Year Of The Trouble In Lanc… The skies are pale, the trees are… The earth is dull and old; The frost is glittering as if The very sun were cold.
Ave! Once more touch the strings That Memory may feed upon the str… And over-live again The days, When the heart gloried in the gold…
In that high country whither thou… Right noble friend, thou walkest w… The gathered great of many a hundr… Few are left like thee-few, I say… Else were thy England soon a Baby…
The stars are spinning their threa… And the clouds are the dust that f… And the suns are weaving them up For the day when the sleepers aris… The ocean in music rolls,
Sweep up the flure, Janet; Put on anither peat. It’s a lown and a starry nicht, J… And nowther cauld nor weet. It’s the nicht atween the Sancts…