A Bunch Of Triolets

TO ---

You like the trifling triolet:
    Well, here are three or four.
Unless your likings I forget,
You like the trifling triolet.
Against my conscience I abet
    A taste which I deplore;
You like the trifling triolet:
    Well, here are three or four.

Have you ever met with a pretty girl
    Walking along the street,
With a nice new dress and her hair in curl?
Have you ever met with a pretty girl,
When her hat blew off and the wind with a whirl
    Wafted it right to your feet?
Have you ever met with a pretty girl
    Walking along the street?

I ran into a lady's arms,
    Turning a corner yesterday.
To my confusion, her alarms,
I ran into a lady's arms.
So close a vision of her charms
    Left me without a word to say.
I ran into a lady's arms,
    Turning a corner yesterday.

How many maids you love,
    How many maids love you!
Your conscious blushes prove
How many maids you love.
Each trusts you like a dove,
    But would she, if she knew
How many maids you love,
    How many maids love you?

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

The True Liberal

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Golden Dream

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The First Meeting

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

To J. R.

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.

My Lady

My Lady of all ladies!    Queen by right
    Of tender beauty; full of gentle moods;
    With eyes that look divine beatitudes,
Large eyes illumined with her spirit's light;

Lips that are lovely both by sound and sight,
    Breathing such music as the dove, which broods
    Within the dark and silence of the woods,
Croons to the mate that is her heart's delight.

Where is a line, in cloud or wave or hill,
    To match the curve which rounds her soft-flushed cheek?
            A colour, in the sky of morn or of even,
To match that flush?    Ah, let me now be still!
    If of her spirit I should strive to speak,
            I should come short, as earth comes short of heaven.

Robert Fuller Murray

A Lover's Confession

When people tell me they have loved
    But once in youth,
I wonder, are they always moved
    To speak the truth?

Not that they wilfully deceive:
    They fondly cherish
A constancy which they would grieve
    To think might perish.

They cherish it until they think
    'Twas always theirs.
So, if the truth they sometimes blink,
    'Tis unawares.

Yet unawares, I must profess,
    They do deceive
Themselves, and those who questionless
    Their tale believe.

For I have loved, I freely own,
    A score of times,
And woven, out of love alone,
    A hundred rhymes.

Boys will be fickle.    Yet, when all
    Is said and done,
I was not one whom you could call
    A flirt--not one

Of those w...

Robert Fuller Murray

When We Three Meet

When we three meet? Ah! friend of mine
Whose verses well and flow as wine, -
    My thirsting fancy thou dost fill
    With draughts delicious, sweeter still
Since tasted by those lips of thine.

I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine
Of autumn, with a warmth divine,
    Thrilled through as only I shall thrill
    When we three meet.

I pledge thee, if we fast or dine,
We yet shall loosen, line by line,
    Old ballads, and the blither trill
    Of our-time singers - for there will
Be with us all the Muses nine
    When we three meet.

James Whitcomb Riley

Ballade Of The Golfer In Love

In the "foursome" some would fain
    Find nepenthe for their woe;
Following through shine or rain
    Where the "greens" like satin show;
    But I vote such sport as "slow"
Find it rather glum and gruesome;
    With a little maid I know
I would play a quiet "twosome"!

In the "threesome," some maintain,
    Lies excitement's gayest glow,
Strife that mounts unto the brain
    Like the sparkling Veuve Clicquot;
    My opinion? Nay, not so!
Noon or eve or morning dewsome
    With a little maid I know
I would play a quiet "twosome"!

Bays of glory some would gain
    With grim "Bogey" for their foe;
(He's a bogey who's not slain
    Save one smite with canny blow!)
    Yet I hold this tame, and though
My refrain seems tr...

Clinton Scollard

Love's Phantom

Whene'er I try to read a book,
Across the page your face will look,
And then I neither know nor care
What sense the printed words may bear.

At night when I would go to sleep,
Thinking of you, awake I keep,
And still repeat the words you said,
Like sick men murmuring prayers in bed.

And when, with weariness oppressed,
I sink in spite of you to rest,
Your image, like a lovely sprite,
Haunts me in dreams through half the night.

I wake upon the autumn morn
To find the sunrise hardly born,
And in the sky a soft pale blue,
And in my heart your image true.

When out I walk to take the air,
Your image is for ever there,
Among the woods that lose their leaves,
Or where the North Sea sadly heaves.

By what enchantment shal...

Robert Fuller Murray

Cairnsmill Den--Tune: 'A Roving'

As I, with hopeless love o'erthrown,
With love o'erthrown, with love o'erthrown,
    And this is truth I tell,
As I, with hopeless love o'erthrown,
Was sadly walking all alone,

I met my love one morning
    In Cairnsmill Den.
One morning, one morning,
One blue and blowy morning,
I met my love one morning
    In Cairnsmill Den.

A dead bough broke within the wood
Within the wood, within the wood,
    And this is truth I tell.
A dead bough broke within the wood,
And I looked up, and there she stood.

I asked what was it brought her there,
What brought her there, what brought her there,
    And this is truth I tell.
I asked what was it brought her there.
Says she, 'To pull the primrose fair.'

Says I, 'Come, let me pu...

Robert Fuller Murray