A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears see how yond justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear change places and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief.
A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears see how yond justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear change places and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief.
To yon fair land ye come from, to yon sphere
Of strength and love where now ye shape your flight,
O even wings of music, bear my soul!
How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
From far, from eve and morning
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me
Blew hither: here am I.
O Were my love yon Lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring,
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing!
Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark Who in widow weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse.
O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa';
And I myself a drap o' dew,
Into her bonie breast to fa'!
If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shalt love another,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they'll wither.
Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass.
Ask why the sunlight not for ever
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain-river,
Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown,
Why fear and dream and death and birth
Cast on the daylight of this earth
Such gloom, -- why man has such a scope
For love and hate, despondency and hope?
Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain:
How may the death of that dull insect be
The life of yon trim Shakespeare on the tree?
But first I'll turn yon fellow in his grave,
And then return lamenting to my love.
I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun,
Has it not seen?
Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath,
Life glistens on the river of the death.
But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories