A Birthday Gift

No gift I bring but worship, and the love
    Which all must bear to lovely souls and pure,
    Those lights, that, when all else is dark, endure;
Stars in the night, to lift our eyes above;

To lift our eyes and hearts, and make us move
    Less doubtful, though our journey be obscure,
    Less fearful of its ending, being sure
That they watch over us, where'er we rove.

And though my gift itself have little worth,
    Yet worth it gains from her to whom 'tis given,
            As a weak flower gets colour from the sun.
Or rather, as when angels walk the earth,
    All things they look on take the look of heaven--
            For of those blessed angels thou art one.

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

Requiem

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Andrew M'Crie. From The Unpublished Remains Of Edgar Allan Poe

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Burial Of William The Conqueror

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Pleasant Prophecies

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

God; Not Gift

    Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er;
        My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow;
    Ghastly and dry, my desert shore
        Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show.

    'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky;
        Stillest the heart-throb of my sea;
    Tellest the sad wind not to sigh,
        Yea, life itself to wait for thee!

    Lord, here I am, empty enough!
        My music but a soundless moan!
    Blind hope, of all my household stuff,
        Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone!

    Shall hope too go, that I may trust
        Purely in thee, and spite of all?
    Then turn my very heart to dust--
        On thee, on thee, I yet will call.

    List! list! his wind among the pines
        Hark! hark! that rushi...

George MacDonald

The Thank Offering.

My little child receives my gift,
    A simple piece of bread;
But to her mouth she doth not lift
    The love in bread conveyed,
Till on my lips, unerring, swift,
    The morsel first is laid.

This is her grace before her food,
    This her libation poured;
Uplift, like offering Aaron good
    Heaved up unto the Lord;
More riches in the thanks than could
    A thousand gifts afford!

My Father, every gift of thine,
    Teach me to lift to Thee;
Not else know I the love divine,
    With which it comes to me;
Not else the tenfold gift is mine
    Of taking thankfully.

Yea, all my being I would lift,
    An offering of me;
Then only truly mine the gift,
    When so received by Thee;
Then shall I go, rejoicing, swift...

George MacDonald

A Gift.

My gift would find thee fast asleep,
    And arise a dream in thee;
A violet sky o'er the roll and sweep
    Of a purple and pallid sea;
And a crescent moon from my sky should creep
    In the golden dream to thee.

Thou shouldst lay thee down, and sadly list
    To the wail of our cold birth-time;
And build thee a temple, glory-kissed,
    In the heart of the sunny clime;
Its columns should rise in a music-mist,
    And its roofs in a spirit-rhyme.

Its pillars the solemn hills should bind
    'Neath arches of starry deeps;
Its floor the earth all veined and lined;
    Its organ the ocean-sweeps;
And, swung in the hands of the grey-robed wind,
    Its censers the blossom-heaps.

And 'tis almost done; for in this my rhyme,
    Tha...

George MacDonald

Verses Sent To A Lady On Her Birthday.

The joyous day illumes the sky
That bids each care and sorrow fly
To shades of endless night:
E'en frozen age, thawed in the fires
Of social mirth, feels young desires,
And tastes of fresh delight.

In thoughtful mood your parents dear,
Whilst joy smiles through the starting tear,
Give approbation due.
As each drinks deep in mirthful wine
Your rosy health, and looks benign
Are sent to heaven for you.

But let me whisper, lovely fair,
This joy may soon give place to care,
And sorrow cloud this day;
Full soon your eyes of sparkling blue,
And velvet lips of scarlet hue,
Discoloured, may decay.

As bloody drops on virgin snows,
So vies the lily with the rose
Full on your dimpled cheek;
But ah! the worm in lazy coil
May ...

Patrick Bronte

Love's Worship Restored

O Love, thine empire is not dead,
Nor will we let thy worship go,
Although thine early flush be fled,
Thine ardent eyes more faintly glow,
And thy light wings be fallen slow
Since when as novices we came
Into the temple of thy name.

Not now with garlands in our hair,
And singing lips, we come to thee.
There is a coldness in the air,
A dulness on the encircling sea,
Which doth not well with songs agree.
And we forget the words we sang
When first to thee our voices rang.

When we recall that magic prime,
We needs must weep its early death.
How pleasant from thy towers the chime
Of bells, and sweet the incense breath
That rose while we, who kept thy faith,
Chanting our creed, and chanting bore
Our offerings to thine altar store!

Robert Fuller Murray

God's Gifts To Be Enjoyed

From God's all bounteous hand descend
Rare gifts in rich effusion,
And with those gifts no poisons blend,
Nor is their end delusion;
So do not spurn if He bestow
Those forms arrayed in beauty;
If thus His gifts with radiance glow,
Enjoyment is a duty.

Come, deck your brows with leaves and flowers,
Ye fair ones, nothing fearing;
Adorn your homes and train your bowers
Nor deem this sin's appearing;
We do not fit ourselves for bliss
By scorning all adorning;
We may enjoy the good of this
And share heaven's brighter morning.

A garment plain may have its stain,
And saintly brows lack sweetness;
But he who would heaven's glory gain
Must here acquire a meetness;
So eat and drink, rejoice and sing,
But don't forget the ending;

Joseph Horatio Chant