Suggested by a drawing of Thomas… . This must be the very night! The moon knows it!-and the trees! They stand straight upright,

Down a warm alley, early in the ye… Among the woods, with all the suns… And all the winds outside it, I b… To think that something gracious w… If anything of grace inhabit here,

Thrice-happy he whose heart, each… When old-worn day hath vanished o’… And he hath laid him down in chamb… Straightway begins to tremble and… And loose faint flashes toward the…

And must I ever wake, gray dawn,… Thee standing sadly by me like a g… I am perplexed with thee that thou… This earth another turning! All a… Thou shouldst have reached me, wit…

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…

A lang-backit, spilgie, fuistit au… Gangs a’ nicht rakin athort the wa… Wi’ a pock on his back, luikin hun… His crook-fingert han’ aye followi… He gathers up a’thing that canna b…

I said, I will arise and work som… Nor be content with growth, but ca… A life around me, clear as yes fro… That to my restless hand some rest… And give a vital power to Action’…

Daylight fades away. Is the Lord at hand In the shadows gray Stealing on the land? Gently from the east

All things are shadows of thee, L… The sun himself is but thy shade; My spirit is the shadow of thy wor… A thing that thou hast said. Diamonds are shadows of the sun,

My wife contrived a fleecy thing Her husband to infold, For ’tis the pride of woman still To cover from the cold: My daughter made it a new text

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 woke at midnight, and my heart, My beating heart, said this to me: Thou seest the moon, how calm and… The world is fair by day and night… But what is that to thee?

Christmas-Days are still in store… Will they change-steal faded hithe… Or come fresh as heretofore, Summering all our winter weather? Surely they will keep their bloom

What gars ye sing sae, birdie, As gien ye war lord o’ the lift? On breid ye’re an unco sma’ lairdi… But in hicht ye’ve a kingly gift! A’ ye hae to coont yersel rich in

There was John Gordon an’ Archib… An’ a yerl’s twin sons war they; Quhan they war are an’ twenty year… They fell oot on their ae birthday… ‘Turn ye, John Gordon, nae brithe…