The torments o’ its parent flesh
In thocht-preventin’ thocht concealed,
Or still in curst impossible mould,
Last thistle-shape men think to tak’,
The soul, frae flesh and thocht set free,
On Heaven’s strait if unseen rack.
There may be heicher forms in which
We can nae mair oor plicht define,
Because the agonies involved
’ll bring us their ain anodyne.