From the airplane, streaks of light pick out
a little town, plumped down there by chance:
an accidence of streams and slopes,
heads and tails of nature’s providence.

For us–no more, no less–the time,
and place and fortune of our birth
is happenchance; yours and mine,
my love, as random as the rest.

Had this fine braiding of our stream not come
–this blessèd odds–I would have pined long
for it. When you’re around, your fun
and cheerfulness send every penny spinning
in the air, to land the right way up,
heads or tails, whichever one is called.

Fae da aeroplane, taas o licht pick oot
a peerie toon, plunkit dere bi chance:
an accidence o burns an broos,
heads an tails o nature’s providence.

Fur wis -nae mair, nae less – da time,
an place an fortune o wir birth
is happenchance; dine an mine,
mi jewel, is dicey is da rest.

Hed dis fine braidin o wir burn no come,
– dis blissit odds – I wid a virmished
fur hit. Whin du’s aroond, dy fun
an lichtsomeness sends ivery penny dirlin
i da air, ta laand da richt wye up,
heads or tails, whitivver een is ca’ad.