An Invitation

Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly,
    And tell me that the visit which has suffered such belating
Is to be a thing of now, and no more of by-and-by.
            Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.

The sea is at its bluest, and the Spring is new creating
    The woods and dens we know of, and the fields rejoicing lie,
And the air is soft as summer, and the hedge-birds all are mating.

The Links are full of larks' nests, and the larks possess the sky,
    Like a choir of happy spirits, melodiously debating,
All is ready for your coming, dear Ritchie--yes, and I,
            Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.

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

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 From The Unpublished Remains Of Edgar Allan Poe

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Welcome Home

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Voice That Sings

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A New Song To An Old Tune--From Victor Hugo

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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Invitation

Unless you come while still the world is green,
    A place of birds and the blue dreaming sea,
In vain has all the singing summer been,
    Unless you come, and share it all with me.

Ah! come, ere August flames its heart away,
    Ere, like a golden widow, autumn goes
Across the woodlands, sad with thoughts of May,
    An aster in her bosom for a rose.

Richard Le Gallienne

Welcome Home

The fire burns bright
And the hearth is clean swept,
As she likes it kept,
And the lamp is alight.
She is coming to-night.

The wind's east of late.
When she comes, she'll be cold,
So the big chair is rolled
Close up to the grate,
And I listen and wait.

The shutters are fast,
And the red curtains hide
Every hint of outside.
But hark, how the blast
Whistled then as it passed!

Or was it the train?
How long shall I stand,
With my watch in my hand,
And listen in vain
For the wheels in the lane?

Hark!    A rumble I hear
(Will the wind not be still?),
And it comes down the hill,
And it grows on the ear,
And now it is near.

Quick, a fresh log to burn!
Run and open the door,
Hold a lam...

Robert Fuller Murray

Come Back To St. Andrews

Come back to St. Andrews!    Before you went away
You said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay,
The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the sea
Come back to St. Andrews--St. Andrews and me.

Oh, it's dreary along South Street when the rain is coming down,
And the east wind makes the student draw more close his warm red gown,
As I often saw you do, when I watched you going by
On the stormy days to College, from my window up on high.

I wander on the Lade Braes, where I used to walk with you,
And purple are the woods of Mount Melville, budding new,
But I cannot bear to look, for the tears keep coming so,
And the Spring has lost the freshness which it had a year ago.

Yet often I could fancy, where the pathway takes a turn,
I shall s...

Robert Fuller Murray

For Scotland

Beyond the Cheviots and the Tweed,
    Beyond the Firth of Forth,
My memory returns at speed
    To Scotland and the North.

For still I keep, and ever shall,
    A warm place in my heart for Scotland,
Scotland, Scotland,
    A warm place in my heart for Scotland.

Oh, cruel off St. Andrew's Bay
    The winds are wont to blow!
They either rest or gently play,
    When there in dreams I go.

And there I wander, young again,
    With limbs that do not tire,
Along the coast to Kittock's Den,
    With whinbloom all afire.

I climb the Spindle Rock, and lie
    And take my doubtful ease,
Between the ocean and the sky,
    Derided by the breeze.

Where coloured mushrooms thickly grow,
    Like flowers of brittle stal...

Robert Fuller Murray

Her Letter

    "I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me;
    My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow,
    And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see. . . .
    You'd little know your mother, boy; you'd little, little know.
    You mind how brisk and bright I was, how straight and trim and smart;
    'Tis weariful I am the now, and bent and frail and grey.
    I'm waiting at the road's end, lad; and all that's in my heart,
    Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."

    "Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea;
    'Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I.
    You said that you'd be home again in two years, maybe three;
    But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by.
    I kno...

Robert William Service

The End Of April

This is the time when larks are singing loud
    And higher still ascending and more high,
This is the time when many a fleecy cloud
    Runs lamb-like on the pastures of the sky,
This is the time when most I love to lie
    Stretched on the links, now listening to the sea,
Now looking at the train that dawdles by;
    But James is going in for his degree.

James is my brother.    He has twice been ploughed,
    Yet he intends to have another shy,
Hoping to pass (as he says) in a crowd.
    Sanguine is James, but not so sanguine I.
If you demand my reason, I reply:
    Because he reads no Greek without a key
And spells Thucydides c-i-d-y;
    Yet James is going in for his degree.

No doubt, if the authorities allowed
    The taking in of Bohns, ...

Robert Fuller Murray