En maint rameau subtil, qui, demeuré les vrais
Bois même, prouve, hélas! que bien seul je m’offrais
Pour triomphe le faute idéale des roses.”[8]
Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!...
I love to muse upon the skill that gangs
To mak’ the simplest thing that Earth displays,
The eident life that ilka atom thrangs,
And uses it in the appointit ways,
And a’ the endless brain that nocht escapes
That myriad moves them to inimitable shapes.