It's no aye rainin' on the misty Achils,
It's no aye white wi' winter on Nigour ;
The winds are no' sae mony sorrowin' Rachels,
That grieve, and o' their grief will no' gie owre.
Dark are Benarty slopes, an' the steep Lomon'
Flings a lang shadow on the watter plain ;
But fair Lochleven's no for ever gloomin',
An' Devon's no' aye dark wi' Lammas rain.
The birks tho' bare, an' the sune-naked ashes,
Not always widow'd of their leaves appear ;
The oaks cry oot beneath November's lashes,
But not for all the months that mak' the year.
Comes round a time, comes round at last tho' creepin',
And green and glad again stand buss an' tree ;
E'en tender gowans, thro' the young gress peepin',
Rise in their weakness, and owre-rin the lea.
Thus Nature sorrows, and forgets her sorrow ;
And Reason soberly approves her way :
Why should we shut oor een against to-morrow
Because our sky was clouded yesterday ?

James Logie Robertson (died 1922)

Poem selected by The Scottish Poetry Library