Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray Poems

  • 51.  
    I have been lonely all my days on earth,
    Living a life within my secret soul,With mine own springs of sorrow and of mirth,
  • 52.  
    Oh, who may this dead warrior be
    That to his grave they bring?`Tis William, Duke of Normandy,
  • 53.  
  • 54.  
  • 55.  
    After Longfellow

  • 56.  
    Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
    Warmly the light Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay --
  • 57.  
    Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I
    Thy strong solicitations to withstand. Plenty of work lies ready to my hand,
  • 58.  
    When people tell me they have loved
    But once in youth, I wonder, are they always moved
  • 59.  
    Love, when the present is become the past,
    And dust has covered all that now is new, When many a fame has faded out of view,
  • 60.  
    Every critic in the town
    Runs the minor poet down; Every critic--don't you know it?
  • 61.  
    Song is not dead, although to-day
    Men tell us everything is said. There yet is something left to say,
  • 62.  
    Sorrow and sin have worked their will
    For years upon your sovereign face, And yet it keeps a faded trace
  • 63.  
    Alas for the bird who was born to sing!
    They have made him a cage; they have clipped his wing; They have shut him up in a dingy street,
  • 64.  
    Last night for the first time, O Heart's Delight,
    I held your hand a moment in my own, The dearest moment which my soul has known,
  • 65.  
    Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly,
    And tell me that the visit which has suffered such belating Is to be a thing of now, and no more of by-and-by.
  • 66.  
    The truest Liberal is he
    Who sees the man in each degree, Who merit in a churl can prize,
  • 67.  
    Whene'er I try to read a book,
    Across the page your face will look, And then I neither know nor care
  • 68.  
    You found my life, a poor lame bird
    That had no heart to sing, You would not speak the magic word
  • 69.  
    My lamp is out, my task is done,
    And up the stair with lingering feet I climb. The staircase clock strikes one.
  • 70.  
    [After Wordsworth.]

  • 71.  
    Sleep flies me like a lover
    Too eagerly pursued, Or like a bird to cover
  • 72.  
    Come back to St. Andrews! Before you went away
    You said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay, The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the sea
  • 73.  
    Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
    As your eye glances over these Notes: 'What asses are these that are braying
  • 74.  
    Hurrah for the Science Club!
    Join it, ye fourth year men; Join it, thou smooth-cheeked scrub,
  • 75.  
    at the l.l.a. examination
    In Algebra, if Algebra be ours,
  • 76.  
    Ye who will help me in my dying pain,
    Speak not a word: let all your voices cease. Let me but hear some soft harmonious strain,
  • 77.  
    Where she sleeps, no moonlight shines
    No pale beam unbidden creeps. Darkest shade the place enshrines
  • 78.  
    Love, we have heard together
    The North Sea sing his tune, And felt the wind's wild feather
  • 79.  
    I met him down upon the pier,
    His eyes were wild and sad, And something in them made me fear
  • 80.  
    The air is dark and fragrant
    With memories of a shower, And sanctified with stillness
  • 81.  
    In vain you fervently extol,
    In vain you puff, your cutty clay. A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal,
  • 82.  
    How often have the critics, trained
    To look upon the sky Through telescopes securely chained,
  • 83.  
    Of our own will we are not free,
    When freedom lies within our power. We wait for some decisive hour,
  • 84.  
    Beside the drowsy streams that creep
    Within this island of repose, Oh, let us rest from cares and woes,
  • 85.  
    Be ye happy, if ye may,
    In the years that pass away. Ye shall pass and be forgot,
  • 86.  
    The voice that sings across the night
    Of long forgotten days and things, Is there an ear to hear aright
  • 87.  
    Oh, will the footsteps never be done?
    The insolent feet Thronging the street,
  • 88.  
    The sun shines fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright,
    Your heart is full of pleasure, your eyes are full of light, Your cheeks are like the morning, your pearls are like the dew,
  • 89.  
    from the unpublished remains of Edgar Allan Poe
    In the oldest of our alleys,
  • 90.  
    It seems a hundred years or more
    Since I, with note-book, ink and pen, In cap and gown, first trod the floor
  • 91.  
    One dark, dark night--it was long ago,
    The air was heavy and still and warm - It fell to me and a man I know,
  • 92.  
    There was a time when in your face
    There dwelt such power, and in your smile I know not what of magic grace;
  • 93.  
    Last night, when at parting
    Awhile we did stand, Suddenly starting,
  • 94.  
    If a pleasant lawn there grow
    By the showers caressed, Where in all the seasons blow
  • 95.  
    It is the Police Commissioners,
    All on a winter's day; And they to prove the town water
  • 96.  
    There was a time when it was counted high
    To be a patriot--whether by the zeal Of peaceful labour for the country's weal,
  • 97.  
    Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle
    Of ninety degrees (this angle is right), You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle
  • 98.  
    Familiar with thy melody,
    We go debating of its power, As churls, who hear it hour by hour,
  • 99.  
    Would you like to see a city given over,
    Soul and body, to a tyrannising game? If you would, there's little need to be a rover,
  • 100.  
    The Red King's gone a-hunting, in the woods his father made
    For the tall red deer to wander through the thicket and the glade, The King and Walter Tyrrel, Prince Henry and the rest
Total 129 poems written by Robert Fuller Murray

Poem of the day

The Dome Of Sunday
 by Karl Shapiro

With focus sharp as Flemish-painted face
In film of varnish brightly fixed
And through a polished hand-lens deeply seen,
Sunday at noon through hyaline thin air
Sees down the street,
And in the camera of my eye depicts
Row-houses and row-lives:
Glass after glass, door after door the same,

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