Scottish Poetry Selection
- To Nature
To NatureMother of all! How healing is my rest -
When human grief assails me,
When human solace fails me -
In sweet forgetfulness upon thy breast!
No gilded lie is thine, no promise vain,
No tale of bliss to-morrow,
To cheat me of my sorrow,
Or lull the poignancy of present pain.
Too wise art thou, where comfort cannot flower,
To vex me with condoling,
To mock me with consoling,
Or with caresses tease the bitter hour.
But with thy glad green woods and careless gales,
With all the myriad voices
Wherewith young June rejoices,
Her light-lost larks, her cuckoo-haunted vales,
Come steal me from myself, nor let me go,
In God's fair world lamenting,
My folly unrepenting,
Blind to all good for one poor mote of woe.
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