Robert Burns

Why should that bard in bloom of life possess a heart forlorn,

And through his muse cry to the world that man was made to mourn.

Those words have echoed from the hearts of countless storm-tossed men,

But, searching deep, I fail to see what pain his could have been.

I see him as he held the plow and sang his lyrics low,

I see him as he rose to fame which brought him naught but woe;

I see him as he strolled along the sunny banks of Ayr,

And hear his cry which echoed far from some unknown despair.

Ah, Burns, I love thee, for thy book is like a flowery mead,

Where flows a stream of rippling mirth – I listen as I read;

It sings and dances on its way, while now and then a deep

Wide cut appears between the banks where graver musings sweep.

Well hast thou hidden from the world the sadness of thy soul;

The melancholy strain is hushed beneath the brooklet’s roll.

We catch it once above the plash, then onward it is borne,

And we forget forever more that man was made to morn.

June 6, ‘91

Pub. in Camb. Press