#ScottishWriters
OUT, out into the wind-swept clea… Whose purple canopy, the sky, is b… With the soft splendour of the ful… And a thousand stars that mystical… Strange melodies upborne on the co…
I hear the dull, low thunder of th… Beyond the hills that doze uneasil… A sullen doomful growl that ever r… From end to end of the heavy freig… A friend of mine writes, squatted…
I WANDER in the dawn to where t… I hear the songs of singing birds;… I hear the faint hum of flies; and… All things fill my soul with prais… I do not ask for dim cathedral pla…
If I should die—chatter only this… ‘A bullet flew by that did not mis… I did not give life up because of… That bullet came thro’, and that w… Don’t put up a cross where my dung…
THE hour is drowsed with things o… That round my tottering senses cre… Like subtle wandering scents, so r… They might ensweeten fairies’ hair… And I am walking in a glade
WALKING among men like a phanto… With vacant eyes and listless air, Unmarked, befriended, jeered at, l… Only smiling in reply And drawing into self again
The moon—frozen eye— Stares down stupidly, And the wind licks A few bare sticks, Once trees:
I PRAY to God at night, Tho’ I know not where He is Nor what He is; Nor whether I am right: I pray to God at night.
Ah! when it rains all day And the sky is a mist That creeps by chillily Where sun once kissed, Like death pale shroud,
Lo! there she comes from afar Her eyes tender as moonlight Or the evening star On a purple night In Autumn! See!
You hide your grief, Mother, But in lonely twilight times You silently weep for another Who is dead. Alone, you mourn thus;
We met a strange old man to-day (As we strolled in the ruined plac… And he smiled to us as we came his… With gentle, wistful grace. ‘ Ah! Messieurs, it is very sad’
I HAVE leaned on God And have been comforted by Him: My fears have been allayed ; My terror of Death has been forgo… My frightened heart
I HEAR a rat scurrying At the end o’ the street Across the moon-lit stones, hurryi… To dingier retreat— A ruined house against the moon,
It is not sweet to die for one’s c… I saw a dead man stinking in a tre… Where even flies would sicken with… Ah! is it sweet to die for one’s c… His face had rotted black as ebony…