The day returns, my bosom burns - Robert Burns

The day returns, my bosom burns,
    The blissful day we twa did meet:
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,
    Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
    And crosses o'er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
    Heav'n gave me more—it made thee mine!

While day and night can bring delight,
    Or nature aught of pleasure give;
While joys above my mind can move,
    For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below
    Comes in between, to make us part,
The iron hand that breaks our band,
    It breaks my bliss—it breaks my heart!

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Robert Burns (1759 – 1796) Scotland
Source: The World’s Best Poetry, ed. by Bliss Carman, et al. Philadelphia: John D. Morris & Co., 1904