Ill-faith stirs in me as she comes at last,
The features lang forekent ... are unforecast.
O it gangs hard wi’me, I am forspent.
Deid dreams ha’e beaten me and a face unkent
And generations that I thocht unborn
Hail the strange Goddess frae my hert’s-hert torn!...
Or dost thou mak’ a thistle o’ me, wumman? But for thee
I were as happy as the munelicht, withoot care,
But thocht o’ thee—o’ thy contempt and ire—
Turns hauf the warld into the youky thistle there,