Robert Burns Wilson

What intuition named thee?--Through what thrill
  Of the awed soul came the command divine
  Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine
  Should palpitate with his whose raptures will
  Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill
  Their undulating ways up through the fine
  Fair mists of heavenly reaches?  Thy pure line
  Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still
  The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised
  His voice therein, and, quit of every stress
  Of earthly ache and longing and despair,
  Knew certainly each simple thing he praised
  Was no less worthy, for its lowliness,
  Than any joy of all the glory There.