#ScottishWriters
THE CHURCH stands there beyond… How yearningly I gaze upon its sp… Lifted mysterious through the twil… Dissolving in the sunset’s golden… Or dim as slender incense morn by…
To Alice and Hypatia Bradlaugh Who was Lilah? I am sure She was young and sweet and pure; With the forehead wise men love,- Here a lucid dawn above
He came to the desert of London t… Gray miles long; He wandered up and he wandered dow… Singing a quiet song. He came to the desert of London t…
He cried out through the night: “Where is the light? Shall nevermore Open Heaven’s door? Oh, I am left
‘Ceste insignefable et tragicque c… The sun was down, and twilight gre… Filled half the air; but in the ro… Whose curtain had been drawn all d… The twilight was a dusky gloom:
What precious thing are you making… In all these silken lines? And where and to whom will it go a… Such subtle knots and twines! I am tying up all my love in this,
Give a man a horse he can ride, Give a man a boat he can sail; And his rank and wealth, his stren… On sea nor shore shall fail. Give a man a pipe he can smoke,
This field of stones, he said, May well call forth a sigh; Beneath them lie the dead, On them the living lie.
SHE was so good, and he was so ba… A very pretty time they had! A pretty time, and it lasted long: Which of the two was more in the w… He befouled in the slough of sin;
“Why are your songs all wild and b… As funeral dirges with the orphans… Each night since first the world w… A sequent day to laugh it down the… Chant us a glee to make our hearts…
Their eyes met; flashed an instant… That leapt unparring to each other… Jarring convulsion through the inm… Then fell, for they had fully done… She, in the manner of her folk unv…
NOR did we lack our own right roy… The glory of our peaceful realm an… By no long years of restless trava… By no fierce wars or intrigues bla… Did he attain his superlofty place…
THE WHITE-ROSE garland at he… The crown of laurel at her head, Her noble life on earth complete, Lay her in the last low bed For the slumber calm and deep:
WHEN one is forty years and seve… Is seven and forty sad years old, He looks not onward for his Heave… The future is too blank and cold, Its pale flowers smell of graveyar…
Would some little joy to-day Visit us, heart! Could it but a moment stay, Then depart, With the flutter of its wings