Pleasures are like poppies spread: You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed.
ROBERT BURNSYour lines, I maintain it, are poetry, and good poetry. Friendship had I been so blest as to have met with you in time, might have led me – God of love only knows where.
More Robert Burns Quotes
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Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep’d in the morning dews.
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To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That’s the true pathos and sublime Of human life.
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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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Now’s the day and now’s the hour.
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Some rhyme a neebor’s name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An’ raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun.
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But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever. Had we never lou’d sae kindly, Had we never lou’d sae blindly, Never met – or never parted – We had ne’er been broken hearted.
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Critics! Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame.
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Beauty’s of a fading nature. Has a season and is gone!
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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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What is life, when wanting love? Night without a morning; Love’s the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning.
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But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, it’s bloom is shed; Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.
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The honest man, though e’er sae poor, Is king o’ men, for a’ that!
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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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My dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heav’n is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
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There’s some are fou o’ love divine; There’s some are fou o’ brandy.
ROBERT BURNS