#ScottishWriters
She comes! again she comes, the br… Under a ragged cloud I found her… Clasping her own dark orb like hop… That ragged cloud hath waited her… And he hath found and he will hide…
Father, in the dark I lay, Thirsting for the light, Helpless, but for hope alway In thy father-might. Out of darkness came the morn,
The infant lies in blessed ease Upon his mother’s breast; No storm, no dark, the baby sees Invade his heaven of rest. He nothing knows of change or deat…
Doon cam the sunbeams, and up gaed… As we spangt ower the road at ten… The horse wasna timmer, the cart w… And little cared we for the burn o… We war young, and the hert in’s wa…
THOU art of this world, Christ.… Thou know’st our evens, our morns,… How moons, and hearts, and seasons… How we grow weary plodding on the… Of future joy how present pain ber…
REMEMBER, Lord, thou hast not… Or if thou didst, it was so long a… I have forgotten-and never underst… I humbly think. At best it was a… A rough-hewn goodness, that did ne…
For years eighteen she, patient so… Her eyes had graveward sent; Her earthly life was lapt in dole, She was so bowed and bent. What words! To her? Who can be ne…
I waited for the Master In the darkness dumb; Light came fast and faster– My light did not come! I waited all the daylight,
My thoughts are like fire-flies, p… My heart like a silver cup, filled… My soul a pale gleaming horizon, w… Will flood the gold earth with a t…
The stars cleave the sky. Yet for us they rest, And their race-course high Is a shining nest! The hours hurry on.
With us there is no gray fearing, With us no aching for lack! For the morn it is always nearing, And the night is at our back. At times a song will fall dumb,
Along the tops of all the yellow t… The golden-yellow trees, the sunsh… And where the leaves are gone, lon… Lone depths of thicket with their… And through the woods, all waste o…
All sights and sounds of day and y… All groups and forms, each leaf an… Are thine, O God, nor will I fea… To talk to thee of them .
Still am I haunting Thy door with my prayers; Still they are panting Up thy steep stairs! Wouldst thou not rather
A quiet heart, submissive, meek, Father, do thou bestow, Which more than granted, will not… To have, or give, or know. Each little hill then holds its gi…