Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Stern Ruin's plowshare drives elate, Full on thy bloom.

I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing: But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou…

With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not - they cannot at will be excited, with an eye…

If a young writer can refrain from writing, he shouldn't hesitate to do so.

My favorite process is writing, from day one. The songs I have written throughout the years were a real great opportunity for me to communicate, because I thin…