A December Day

    Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
            Warmly the light
    Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay--
            Blue, fringed with white.

    That's no December sky!
            Surely 'tis June
    Holds now her state on high,
            Queen of the noon.

    Only the tree-tops bare
            Crowning the hill,
    Clear-cut in perfect air,
            Warn us that still

    Winter, the aged chief,
            Mighty in power,
    Exiles the tender leaf,
            Exiles the flower.

    Is there a heart to-day,
            A heart that grieves
    For flowers that fade away,
            For fallen leaves?

    Oh, not in leaves or flowers
            Endures the charm
    That clothes those naked towers
            With love-light warm.

    O dear St. Andrews Bay,
            Winter or Spring
    Gives not nor takes away
            Memories that cling

    All round thy girdling reefs,
            That walk thy shore,
    Memories of joys and griefs
            Ours evermore.

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

Make-Believes

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Thou Art Queen

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Truce

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

On A Crushed Hat

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.

A December Day

Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
    Warmly the light
Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay--
    Blue, fringed with white.

That's no December sky!
    Surely 'tis June
Holds now her state on high,
    Queen of the noon.

Only the tree-tops bare
    Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
    Warn us that still

Winter, the aged chief,
    Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
    Exiles the flower.

Is there a heart to-day,
    A heart that grieves
For flowers that fade away,
    For fallen leaves?

Oh, not in leaves or flowers
    Endures the charm
That clothes those naked towers
    With love-light warm.

O dear St. Andrews Bay,
    Winter or Spring
Gives not nor takes away
    M...

Robert Fuller Murray

Winter At St. Andrews

The city once again doth wear
    Her wonted dress of winter's bride,
Her mantle woven of misty air,
    With saffron sunlight faintly dyed.
She sits above the seething tide,
    Of all her summer robes forlorn--
And dead is all her summer pride--
    The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.

All round, the landscape stretches bare,
    The bleak fields lying far and wide,
Monotonous, with here and there
    A lone tree on a lone hillside.
No more the land is glorified
    With golden gleams of ripening corn,
Scarce is a cheerful hue descried--
    The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.

For me, I do not greatly care
    Though leaves be dead, and mists abide.
To me the place is thrice as fair
    In winter as in summer-tide:
With k...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Summer Morning

Never was sun so bright before,
    No matin of the lark so sweet,
    No grass so green beneath my feet,
Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.

I stand with thee outside the door,
    The air not yet is close with heat,
    And far across the yellowing wheat
The waves are breaking on the shore.

A lovely day!    Yet many such,
    Each like to each, this month have passed,
            And none did so supremely shine.
One thing they lacked: the perfect touch
    Of thee--and thou art come at last,
            And half this loveliness is thine.

Robert Fuller Murray

On A December Day

I.

This is the sweetness of an April day;
    The softness of the spring is on the face
    Of the old year. She has no natural grace,
But something comes to her from far away

Out of the Past, and on her old decay
    The beauty of her childhood you can trace.--
    And yet she moveth with a stormy pace,
And goeth quickly.--Stay, old year, oh, stay!

We do not like new friends, we love the old;
    With young, fierce, hopeful hearts we ill agree;
But thou art patient, stagnant, calm, and cold,
    And not like that new year that is to be;--
        Life, promise, love, her eyes may fill, fair child!
        We know the past, and will not be beguiled.

II.

Yet the free heart will not be captive long;
    And if she changes often...

George MacDonald

December's Snow

The bloom is on the May once more,
The chestnut buds have burst anew;
But, darling, all our springs are o'er,
'Tis winter still for me and you.
We plucked Life's blossoms long ago
What's left is but December's snow.

But winter has its joys as fair,
The gentler joys, aloof, apart;
The snow may lie upon our hair
But never, darling, in our heart.
Sweet were the springs of long ago
But sweeter still December's snow.

Yes, long ago, and yet to me
It seems a thing of yesterday;
The shade beneath the willow tree,
The word you looked but feared to say.
Ah! when I learned to love you so
What recked we of December's snow?

But swift the ruthless seasons sped
And swifter still they speed away.
What though they bow the dainty head
...

Arthur Conan Doyle

A Summer Day By The Sea

The sun is set; and in his latest beams
    Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold,
    Slowly upon the amber air unrolled,
    The falling mantle of the Prophet seems.
From the dim headlands many a lighthouse gleams,
    The street-lamps of the ocean; and behold,
    O'erhead the banners of the night unfold;
    The day hath passed into the land of dreams.
O summer day beside the joyous sea!
    O summer day so wonderful and white,
    So full of gladness and so full of pain!
Forever and forever shalt thou be
    To some the gravestone of a dead delight,
    To some the landmark of a new domain.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow