#ScottishWriters
‘WHO is this little one lying,’ Said Time, ‘at my garden-gate, Moaning and sobbing and crying, Out in the cold so late?’ ‘They lurked until we came near,
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,
How shall he sing who hath no song… He laugh who hath no mirth? Will cannot wake the sleeping song… Yea, Love itself in vain may long To sing with them that have a song…
Enough he labours for his hire; Yea, nought can pay his pain; But powers that wear and waste and… Need help to toil again. They give him freely all they can,
To give a thing and take again Is counted meanness among men; To take away what once is given Cannot then be the way of heaven! But human hearts are crumbly stuff…
The dreary wind of night is out, Homeless and wandering slow; O’er pale seas moaning like a doub… It breathes, but will not blow. It sighs from out the helpless pas…
The stars cleave the sky. Yet for us they rest, And their race-course high Is a shining nest! The hours hurry on.
I know what beauty is, for thou Hast set the world within my heart… Of me thou madest it a part; I never loved it more than now. I know the Sabbath afternoons;
He who by a mother’s love Made the wandering world his own, Every year comes from above, Comes the parted to atone, Binding Earth to the Father’s thr…
I like ye weel upo Sundays, Nanni… I’ yer goon and yer ribbons and a’… But I like ye better on Mondays,… Whan ye’re no sae buskit and braw. For whan we’re sittin sae douce,…
Babe Jesus lay in Mary’s lap, The sun shone in his hair; And this was how she saw, mayhap, The crown already there. For she sang: ‘Sleep on, my littl…
‘Grant, Lord, her prayer, and let… She crieth after us.’ Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so; Serve not a woman thus. Their pride, by condescension fed,
The thousand streets of London gr… Repel all country sights; But bar not winds upon their way, Nor quench the scent of new-mown h… In depth of summer nights.
See how the storm of life ascends Up through the shadow of the world… Beyond our gaze the line extends, Like wreaths of vapour tempest-hur… Grasp tighter, brother, lest the s…
Were I a skilful painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and… And who would blame me then?- Fear of the tide of darkness