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.
In durance vile 1here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.
Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts for ever . . .
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.--Robert Burns
My heart is sair-I dare na tell, My heart is sair for Somebody.