Luikin back, she saw her maiden-sel;
Her sma breist, warm
In the palm o' his langin,
The sliddery girse, the broon yird
Movin aneth them.
Twa in ain,
A Beltane jinin,
Makkin a wummin
Oot o' a trimmlin quine,
An wee an far abeen
The branchin wid,
Booin its airms in blessin.

The waddin ring held constant,
Time didna twist the circle,
Naething cud grind it doon,
Wechtit gowd.
Lord, it wis sweir tae shift.
Ye wid hae thocht twa fowk,
Wi the early pech o' passion spent,
Cud still luik at the road afore,
An nae tak scunner.
She swithered, luikit back.
Aathing she did, gaun forrit,
Wid be a fa't.
Sae wis't a winner,
The first, steen tear,
Frae her hardenin hairt,
He wid neither heed, nur need,
Hid the taste o' satt?