And the gentle God sendeth days
Which move slow, but even they
That pass like sorrow's procession
Are speeding! What wouldst thou?
Hast not thy damie spoken
Unto him thou lovest, and promised
The awakening, and heard o' his hope
Which wert that o' a little child,
That he might see his mither's face?
Ah weel, it be! And wouldst thee
Who lovest him, weep upon his joy?
Smile, my sweet, smile and wait!
Mine ain, take heart, there be nay night.
E'en though the eye doth see the dark.
Mine ain, take heart, for love be fettered,
And soul enchained unto its love.
Flesh hath no power 'gainst this!
(To Mrs. McK., whose husband had lately died.)