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.
Robert BurnsI waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!
Robert Burns