An Afterthought

You found my life, a poor lame bird
    That had no heart to sing,
You would not speak the magic word
    To give it voice and wing.

Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour,
    I think, if you had known
How much my life was in your power,
    It might have sung and flown.

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

For A Present Of Roses

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Make-Believes

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Partnership In Fame

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Golden Dream

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.

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

To A Bird At Dawn

O bird that somewhere yonder sings,
    In the dim hour 'twixt dreams and dawn,
Lone in the hush of sleeping things,
    In some sky sanctuary withdrawn;
Your perfect song is too like pain,
And will not let me sleep again.

I think you must be more than bird,
    A little creature of soft wings,
Not yours this deep and thrilling word -
    Some morning planet 'tis that sings;
Surely from no small feathered throat
    Wells that august, eternal note.

As some old language of the dead,
    In one resounding syllable,
Says Rome and Greece and all is said -
    A simple word a child may spell;
So in your liquid note impearled
Sings the long epic of the world.

Unfathomed sweetness of your song,
    With ancient anguish at its core,

Richard Le Gallienne

Singing-Bird

In the valley of my life
Sings a "Singing-Bird",
And its voice thro' calm and strife
Is sweetly heard.

In the day and thro' the night
Sound the notes,
And its song thro' dark and bright
Ever floats.

Other warblers cease to sing,
And their voices rest,
And they fold their weary wing
In their quiet nest.

But my Singing-Bird still sings
Without a cease;
And each song it murmurs brings
My spirit peace.

"Singing-Bird!" O "Singing-Bird!"
No one knows,
When your holy songs are heard,
What repose

Fills my life and soothes my heart;
But I fear
The day -- thy songs, if we must part,
I'll never hear.

But "Singing-Bird!" ah! "Singing-Bird!"
Should this e'er be,
The dreams of all thy song...

Abram Joseph Ryan

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

Songs On The Voices Of Birds. A Poet In His Youth, And The Cuckoo-Bird.

Once upon a time, I lay
Fast asleep at dawn of day;
Windows open to the south,
Fancy pouting her sweet mouth
To my ear.
    She turned a globe
In her slender hand, her robe
Was all spangled; and she said,
As she sat at my bed's head,
"Poet, poet, what, asleep!
Look! the ray runs up the steep
To your roof." Then in the golden
Essence of romances olden,
Bathed she my entrancéd heart.
And she gave a hand to me,
Drew me onward, "Come!" said she;
And she moved with me apart,
Down the lovely vale of Leisure.

Such its name was, I heard say,
For some Fairies trooped that way;
Common people of the place,
Taking their accustomed pleasure,
(All the clocks being stopped) to race
Down the slope on palfreys fleet.
Bridle bells m...

Jean Ingelow

Dreaming

The moan of a wintry soul
Melted into a summer song,
And the words, like the wavelet's roll,
Moved murmuringly along.

And the song flowed far and away,
Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill --
Each wave of it lit by a ray --
But the sound was so soft and so still,

And the tone was so gentle and low,
None heard the song till it had passed;
Till the echo that followed its flow
Came dreamingly back from the past.

'Twas too late! -- a song never returns
That passes our pathway unheard;
As dust lying dreaming in urns
Is the song lying dead in a word.

For the birds of the skies have a nest,
And the winds have a home where they sleep,
And songs, like our souls, need a rest,
Where they murmur the while we may weep.

  ...

Abram Joseph Ryan