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Hugh MacDiarmid (1892-1978)

One wet early evening in the cold time of year,
when the shorn sheep are trembling,
I saw that unusual thing,
a broken shaft of rainbow with its glimmering light,
beyond the downpour of rain;
and I thought of the last wild look you gave,
before you died.

It was a wild and stormy night,
and my feelings were like that too,
but I have thought of that foolish light
ever since then
and I think that maybe at last I know
what your look meant then.