A Presentiment

It seems a little word to say--
    _Farewell_--but may it not, when said,
    Be like the kiss we give the dead,
Before they pass the doors for aye?

Who knows if, on some after day,
    Your lips shall utter in its stead
    A welcome, and the broken thread
Be joined again, the selfsame way?

The word is said, I turn to go,
    But on the threshold seem to hear
            A sound as of a passing bell,
Tolling monotonous and slow,
    Which strikes despair upon my ear,
            And says it is a last farewell.

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

After Many Days

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Christmas Fancy

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Sweetheart

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The First Meeting

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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The Outcast's Farewell

The sun is banished,
The daylight vanished,
No rosy traces
    Are left behind.
Here in the meadow
I watch the shadow
Of forms and faces
    Upon your blind.

Through swift transitions,
In new positions,
My eyes still follow
    One shape most fair.
My heart delaying
Awhile, is playing
With pleasures hollow,
    Which mock despair.

I feel so lonely,
I long once only
To pass an hour
    With you, O sweet!
To touch your fingers,
Where fragrance lingers
From some rare flower,
    And kiss your feet.

But not this even
To me is given.
Of all sad mortals
    Most sad am I,
Never to meet you,
Never to greet you,
Nor pass your portals
    Before I die.

All men scorn ...

Robert Fuller Murray

Presentiment

As unseen spheres cast shadows on the Earth
    Some unknown cause depresses me to-night.
The house is full of laughter and sweet mirth,
    The day has held but pleasure and delight.

Down in the parlour some one blithely sings;
    A chime of laughter echoes in the hall;
But all unseen by other eyes, strange things
    Rat-like do seem to glide along the wall.

I rise, and laugh, and say I will not care;
    I call them idle fancies, one and all.
And yet, suspended by a single hair,
    The sword of Fate seems trembling soon to fall.

I leave the house, and walk the lighted street;
    And mingle with the pleasure-seeking throng.
And close behind me follow spectre feet
    That pause with me, or with me move along.

I seek my room, and cl...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The House Of Sleep

When we have laid aside our last endeavour,
    And said farewell to one or two that weep,
And issued from the house of life for ever,
    To find a lodging in the house of sleep--

With eyes fast shut, in sunless chambers lying,
    With folded arms unmoved upon the breast,
Beyond the noise of sorrow and of crying,
    Beyond the dread of dreaming, shall we rest?

Or shall there come at last desire of waking,
    To walk again on hillsides that we know,
When sunrise through the cold white mist is breaking,
    Or in the stillness of the after-glow?

Shall there be yearning for the sound of voices,
    The sight of faces, and the touch of hands,
The will that works, the spirit that rejoices,
    The heart that feels, the mind that understands?
<...

Robert Fuller Murray

The Voice That Sings

The voice that sings across the night
    Of long forgotten days and things,
Is there an ear to hear aright
    The voice that sings?

It is as when a curfew rings
    Melodious in the dying light,
A sound that flies on pulsing wings.

And faded eyes that once were bright
    Brim over, as to life it brings
The echo of a dead delight,
    The voice that sings.

Robert Fuller Murray

Dirge

Gone is he now.
One flower the less
Is left to make
For thee less lone
Earth's wilderness,
Where thou
Must still live on.

What hath been, ne'er
May be again.
Yet oft of old,
To cheat despair,
Tales false and fair
In vain
Of death were told.

O vain belief!
O'erweening dreams!
Trust not fond hope,
Nor think that bliss
Which neither seems,
Nor is,
Aught else than grief.

Robert Calverley Trevelyan

Farewell To A Singer. On Her Marriage

As those who hear a sweet bird sing,
    And love each song it sings the best,
Grieve when they see it taking wing
    And flying to another nest:

We, who have heard your voice so oft,
    And loved it more than we can tell,
Our hearts grow sad, our voices soft,
    Our eyes grow dim, to say farewell.

It is not kind to leave us thus;
    Yet we forgive you and combine,
Although you now bring grief to us,
    To wish you joy, for auld lang syne.

Robert Fuller Murray