For a Present of Roses
Crimson and cream and white -
My room is a garden of roses!
Centre and left and right,
Three several splendid posies.
As the sender is, they are sweet,
These lovely gifts of your sending,
With the stifling summer heat
Their delicate fragrance blending.
What more can my heart desire?
Has it lost the power to be grateful?
Is it only a burnt-out fire,
Whose ashes are dull and hateful?
Yet still to itself it doth say,
`I should have loved far better
To have found, coming in to-day,
The merest scrap of a letter.'
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Sweetheart
Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know,
More fair to me
Than flowers that make the loveliest show
To tempt the bee.
When other girls, whose faces are,
Beside thy face,
As rushlights to the evening star,
Deny thy grace,
I silent sit and let them speak,
As men of strength
Allow the impotent and weak
To rail at length.
If they should tell me Love is blind,
And so doth miss
The faults which they are quick to find,
I'd answer this:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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On A Crushed Hat
Brown was my friend, and faithful—but so fat!
He came to see me in the twilight dim;
I rose politely and invited him
To take a seat—how heavily he sat!
He sat upon the sofa, where my hat,
My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim;
Its build, unlike my friend's, was rather slim,
And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.
O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye,
Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown,
And I shall never wear thee any more;
Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie,
And with the years the dust will settle down
On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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A Late Good Night
My lamp is out, my task is done,
And up the stair with lingering feet
I climb. The staircase clock strikes one.
Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!
My solitary room I gain.
A single star makes incomplete
The blackness of the window pane.
Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!
Dim and more dim its sparkle grows,
And ere my head the pillows meet,
My lids are fain themselves to close.
Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!
My lips no other words can say,
But still they murmur and repeat
To you, who slumber far away,
Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Patriotism
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,
Or by the courage in her cause to die:
FOR KING AND COUNTRY was a rallying cry
That turned men's hearts to fire, their nerves to steel;
Not to unheeding ears did it appeal,
A pulpit formula, a platform lie.
Only a fool will wantonly desire
That war should come, outpouring blood and fire,
And bringing grief and hunger in her train.
And yet, if there be found no other way,
God send us war, and with it send the day
When love of country shall be real again!
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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An Invitation
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.
Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.
The sea is at its bluest, and the Spring is new creating
The woods and dens we know of, and the fields rejoicing lie,
And the air is soft as summer, and the hedge-birds all are mating.
The Links are full of larks' nests, and the larks possess the sky,
Like a choir of happy spirits, melodiously debating,
All is ready for your coming, dear Ritchie--yes, and I,
Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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The First Meeting
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,
Since I beheld and loved you at first sight.
I left you, and I wandered in the night,
Under the rain, beside the ocean's moan.
All was black dark, but in the north alone
There was a glimmer of the Northern Light.
My heart was singing like a happy bird,
Glad of the present, and from forethought free,
Save for one note amid its music heard:
God grant, whatever end of this may be,
That when the tale is told, the final word
May be of peace and benison to thee.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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A Wasted Day
Another day let slip! Its hours have run,
Its golden hours, with prodigal excess,
All run to waste. A day of life the less;
Of many wasted days, alas, but one!
Through my west window streams the setting sun.
I kneel within my chamber, and confess
My sin and sorrow, filled with vain distress,
In place of honest joy for work well done.
At noon I passed some labourers in a field.
The sweat ran down upon each sunburnt face,
Which shone like copper in the ardent glow.
And one looked up, with envy unconcealed,
Beholding my cool cheeks and listless pace,
Yet he was happier, though he did not know.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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The Close Of The Session
The Session's over. We must say farewell
To these east winds and to this eastern sea,
For summer comes, with swallow and with bee,
With many a flower and many a golfing swell.
No more the horribly discordant bell
Shall startle slumber; and all men agree
That whatsoever other things may be
A cause of sorrow, this at least is well.
The class-room shall not open wide its doors,
Or if it does, such opening will be vain;
The gown shall hang unused upon a nail;
South Street shall know us not; we'll wipe the Scores
From our remembrance; as for Mutto's Lane,
Yea, even the memory of this shall fail.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Magni Nominnus Umbra
St. Andrews! not for ever thine shall be
Merely the shadow of a mighty name,
The remnant only of an ancient fame
Which time has crumbled, as thy rocks the sea.
For thou, to whom was given the earliest key
Of knowledge in this land (and all men came
To learn of thee), shalt once more rise and claim
The glory that of right belongs to thee.
Grey in thine age, there yet in thee abides
The force of youth, to make thyself anew
A name of honour and a place of power.
Arise, then! shake the dust from off thy sides;
Thou shalt have many where thou now hast few;
Again thou shalt be great. Quick come the hour!
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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