Robert Burns

On Sensibility

SENSIBILITY, how charming,
  Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But distress, with horrors arming,
  Thou hast also known too well!

Fairest flower, behold the lily,
  Blooming in the sunny ray:
Let the blast sweep o’er the valley,
  See it prostrate in the clay.

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
  Telling o’er his little joys;
Hapless bird! a prey the surest
  To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure
  Finer feelings can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
  Thrill the deepest notes of woe.