Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
From A Life DramaAlexander Smith (18301867)
T
The churlish thistles, scented briers,
The wind-swept blue-bells on the sunny braes,
Down to the central fires,
Filling all the abysses dim
Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally
Suns and their bright broods swim.
Is sternly just to sun and grain;
’Tis laving at this moment Saturn’s sides,—
’Tis in my blood and brain.
There is a scent upon the brier,
A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,
Cold morns are fringed with fire.
In music dies poor human speech,
And into beauty blow those hearts of ours
When Love is born in each …
Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give.
This world is very lovely. O my God,
I thank Thee that I live!