Of heavenly stature, but most human smile, Gyved with our faults he stands, Truth’s white and Love’s red roses tendering us, Whose thorns are in his hands.
Collection:
Written in the Visitors' Book at the Birthplace of Robert Burns
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There came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked—and laughed! It seemed so curious that she Should cross the Unknown water, And moor herself within my room— My daughter! O, my daughter! Yet by these presents witness all...
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Of heavenly stature, but most human smile, Gyved with our faults he stands, Truth’s white and Love’s red roses tendering us, Whose thorns are in his hands.