fall, 65 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes That humor interposed too often makes; Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jassamine, 75 I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), Could those few pleasant days again. But higher far my proud pretensions Thy spirits have a fainter flow, rise The son of parents passed into the skies! And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; 5 I see thee daily weaker grow; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! 115 To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine: I therefore purpose not, or dream, But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case. No voice divine the storm allayed, ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796) From LINES TO JOHN LAPRAIK I am nae poet, in a sense, Your critic-folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes, Ye're maybe wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools? If honest Nature made you fools, What sairs1 your grammars? 55 60 65 50 55 60 3 idiots. 4 oxen. 7 puddle. 22 rip. • one. 20 courtesy. 24 if. |