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Beauty's of a fading nature. Has a season and is gone!

Robert Burns

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Robert Burns
Age: 37 †
Born: 1759
Born: January 25
Died: 1796
Died: July 21
Farmer
Musicologist
Poet
Songwriter
Writer
Robbie Burns
Rabbie Burns
Scotland's favourite son
Ploughman Poet
Robden of Solway Firth
Bard of Ayrshire
The Bard
Robert Burns
Nature
Fading
Season
Seasons
Beauty
Gone

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Painters and poets have liberty to lie.
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God knows, I'm not the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be, But twenty times I rather would be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen.
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His locked, lettered, braw brass collar, Shewed him the gentleman and scholar.
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Why has a religious turn of mind always a tendency to narrow and harden the heart?
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Nae man can tether time or tide The hour approachesTam maun ride That hour, o'night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hourTam mounts his beast in.
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That hour o' night's black arch the keystane.
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Nature's law, That man was made to mourn. Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! O Death, the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best!
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God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays of science in a fellow's head whose skull is impervious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture with a cudgel.
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The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie, For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.
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I look on the opposite sex with something like the admiration with which I regard the starry sky on a frosty December night. I admire the beauty of the Creator's workmanship, I am charmed with the wild but graceful eccentricity of the motions, and then I wish both of them goodnight.
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What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns and stools If honest nature made you fools.
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The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
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The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.
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Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gi'es to me.
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Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
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Learn taciturnity and let that be your motto!
Robert Burns
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Their sighing, canting, grace-proud faces, their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces.
Robert Burns
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Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts for ever . . .
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Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it, But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit.
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When Nature her great masterpiece designed,And framed her last, best work, the human mind,Her eye intent on all the wondrous plan,She formed of various stuff the various Man.
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