Let the world’s sharpness, like a clasping knife,
Shut in upon itself and do no harm
In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,
And let us hear no sound of human strife
There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
When I was fair and young, then favor graced me.
Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.
But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:
There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
What is he buzzing in my ears?
“Now that I come to die,
Do I view the world as a vale of tears?”