#Scots #XIXCentury
What dost thou here, O soul, Beyond thy own control, Under the strange wild sky? 0 stars, reach down your hands, And clasp me in your silver bands,
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…
And weep not, though the Beautifu… Within thy heart, as daily in thin… Thy heart must have its autumn, it… Leading, mayhap, to winter’s dim d… Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pa…
Trust my father, saith the eldest-… I did trust him ere the earth bega… Not to know him is to be forlorn; Not to love him is-not to be man. He that knows him loves him altoge…
January 26, 1885 Gordon, the self-refusing, Gordon, the lover of God, Gordon, the good part choosing, Welcome along the road!
Trust him in the common light; Trust him in the awesome night; Trust him when the earth doth quak… Trust him when thy heart doth ache… Trust him when thy brain doth reel
Merry, merry we well may be, For Jesus Christ is come down to… Long before, at the top of the sta… He set our angels a waiting there, Waiting hither and thither to fly,
Farewell, O Arm of the Lord! Man who hated the sword, Yet struck and spared not the thin… Farewell, O word of the Word! Man who knew no failure
Who would have thought that even a… Were such a holy and celestial thi… That wickedness and envy cannot si… That music for no moment lives wit… I know this, for a very grievous t…
When the clock hath ceased to tick Soul-like in the gloomy hall; When the latch no more doth click Tongue-like in the red peach-wall; When no more come sounds of play,
The stars are steady abune; I’ the water they flichter and fle… But, steady aye, luikin doon They ken theirsels i’ the sea. A’ licht, and clear, and free,
Brother artist, help me; come! Artists are a maimed band: I have words but not a hand; Thou hast hands though thou art du… Had I thine, when words did fail–
She knelt, she bore a bold request… Though shy to speak it out: Ambition, even in mother’s breast, Before him stood in doubt. ‘What is it?’ ‘Grant thy promise…
I TO myself have neither power no… Patience nor love, nor anything ri… My soul is a poor land, plenteous… Here blades of grass, there a smal… A nothing that would be something…
Were thou and I the white pinions On some eager, heaven-born dove, Swift would we mount to the old do… To our rest of old, my love! Were thou and I trembling strands
