Wednesday, April 22, 2009

A poem by Robert Burns

O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie
That’s sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve
And fare thee weel, awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

I have to admit that I avoided Burns's poetry for a long time, because I loathe dialect and loathe even more poets that are celebrated by cults--like Bobbie Burns. But this one is so pretty.

I believe that all of Burns's loves (or luves, if you prefer) were like a red, red rose--every last one of them. And there were many.

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