But what aboot it—hic—aboot it?
Mony a man’s been that afore.
It’s no’ a fact that in his lugs
A wund like this need roar!...
[2]I hae forekent ye! O I hae forekent.
The years forecast your face afore they went.
A licht I canna thole is in the lift.
I bide in silence your slow-comin’ pace.
The ends o’ space are bricht: at last—oh swift!
While terror clings to me—an unkent face!