Very, very rare is the couple that has the sense and poise to allow
passion just enough mulberry-leaves, so it will spin a beautiful silken
thread, out of which a Jacob's ladder can be constructed, reaching to the
Infinite. Most lovers in the end wear love to a fringe, and there remains
no ladder with angels ascending and descending--not even a dream of a
ladder. Instead of the silken ladder on which one can mount to Heaven,
there is usually a dark, dank road to Nowhere, over which is thrown a
package of letters and trinkets, all fastened round with a white ribbon,
tied in a lover's knot. The many loves of Robert Burns all ended in a
black jumping-off place, and before he had reached high noon, he tossed
over the last bundle of white-ribboned missives and tumbled in after them.
The life of Burns is a tragedy, through which are interspersed sparkling
scenes of gaiety, as if to retrieve the depth of bitterness that would
otherwise be unbearable. Go ask Mary Morison, Highland Mary, Agnes
McLehose, Betty Alison, and Jean Armour!

* * * * *

The poems of Robert Burns fall easily into four divisions.

First, those written while he was warmly wooing the object of his
affection.

Second, those written after he had won her.

Third, those written when he had failed to win her.

Fourth, those written when he felt it his duty to write, and really had
nothing to say.