Merry it is while summer ilast
With foweles song —
But now nigheth windes blast
And weather strong.
Ei, Ei, how this night is long!
And I with well mickle wrong
Sorrow and mourn and fast.

If I create wealth beyond the dream of past ages and increase not love, my heat is the flush of fever and my success will deal death.
Though I have foresight to locate the fountains of riches, and power to pre-empt them, and skill to tap them, and have no loving vision for humanity, I am blind.
Though I give of my profits to the poor and make princely endowments for those who toil for me, if I have no human fellowship of love with them, my life is barren and doomed.

The barns are sleek with rain
Among the steam of blossoming apple trees,
The robins wade in wet grass to their knees,
The maple woods again
Turn the black asphalt green,
And from a sky of dripping leaves there falls
Green rain at slow monotonous intervals
With a sea-wind between.

As the racing circle closed in like a lassoo
Of running dogs and horses, as the sage was swept,
Out of the turmoil suddenly upward leapt
A jack-rabbit's fawn and jet, with its great soft eye
And fantastic ears outlined against the sky,
Hanging in life a strange moment, then falling back
From that remote beautiful leap to the teeth of the pack
And the trampling hoofs and the Indians' thin halloo.

Many a Lord hath been shovelled away
Leaving no trace on his lands to-day;
The proud old carcases under the stones —
The grave hath eaten their last little bones;
But the name of Nushirvan, from year to year,
Lives for his largesses, happy and dear;
O King! do good! fetch profit from breath!
Before they say: " 'Tis thine hour of death! "

A night without a morning
A trouble without end
A life of bitter scorning
A world without a friend.

Dry stony banks are wreathed with Bindweed Flowers
The dry banks are wreathed in bindweed
& the hills are smoared wi goss seed
Where the lichen shades its fire
Wi the bracken & the moss
There every summer morning my bonny Phebe goes
& sits upon the thymey how & tends her twa three gows.

My Phebe she is handsome wi back as white as milk
Her cheeks they are the very bloom that tarrys on the brere
The bubbies on her bosom they are as soft as silk
& Phebe is the bonny lass theres naebody sae dear
She's like a thing long kept & till we canna gie't awa'
& I'll luv my honest Phebe lang as I've breath to draw

Writ in pale ink
Across the grey scroll of the clouded sky,
A message from the South Land to the North,
I see the wild geese fly.

Look! on my garden-hedge, this glittering morning,
What miracle is seen!
The Spring-rain, by its magic of adorning,
Hath dyed the grey fence green.