Can turn the mid-day black or midnicht bricht,
Lowse me frae licht or eke frae darkness free.
Bite into me forever mair and lift
Me clear o’ chaos in a great relief
Till, like this thistle in the munelicht growin’,
I brak in roses owre a hedge o’ grief....
I am like Burns, and ony wench
Can ser’ me for a time.
Licht’s in them a’—in some a sun,
In some the merest skime.