Tine nae least quiver or twist, watch ilka point
Like a white-het bodkin ripe my inmaist hert,
And aye wi’ clearer pain that brocht nae anodyne,
But rose for ever to a fer crescendo
Like eagles that ootsoar wi’ skinklan’ wings
The thieveless sun they blin’
—And pridefu’ still
That ’yont the sherp wings o’ the eagles fleein’
Aboot the dowless pole o’ Space,
Like leafs aboot a thistle-shank, my bluid