At A High Ceremony

Not the proudest damsel here
Looks so well as doth my dear.
All the borrowed light of dress
Outshining not her loveliness,

A loveliness not born of art,
But growing outwards from her heart,
Illuminating all her face,
And filling all her form with grace.

Said I, of dress the borrowed light
Could rival not her beauty bright?
Yet, looking round, 'tis truth to tell,
No damsel here is dressed so well.

Only in them the dress one sees,
Because more greatly it doth please
Than any other charm that's theirs,
Than all their manners, all their airs.

But dress in her, although indeed
It perfect be, we do not heed,
Because the face, the form, the air
Are all so gentle and so rare.

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 Voice That Sings

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Thirty Years After

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Pleasant Prophecies

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

An Interview

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.

Sweetheart

Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know,
    More fair to me
Than flowers that make the loveliest show
    To tempt the bee.

When other girls, whose faces are,
    Beside thy face,
As rushlights to the evening star,
    Deny thy grace,

I silent sit and let them speak,
    As men of strength
Allow the impotent and weak
    To rail at length.

If they should tell me Love is blind,
    And so doth miss
The faults which they are quick to find,
    I'd answer this:

Envy is blind; not Love, whose eyes
    Are purged and clear
Through gazing on the perfect skies
    Of thine, my dear.

Robert Fuller Murray

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

To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.


When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

    When I would paint thee as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart--
The graceful child in Beauty's dawn
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out--like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own loved Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;--

Thomas Moore

An Aristocrat.

Her fair companions she outshone,
As this or that transcendent star
Makes all its sister orbs look wan
And dim and lustreless and far.

Her charm impressed the fleeting glance,
But chiefly the reflective mind;
A century's inheritance,
By carefull'st nurture still refined.

Devotions, manners, hopes that were,
Ideals high, traditions fine,
Were felt to culminate in her,
The efflorescence of her line.

What time and cost conspired to trace
Her lineaments of perfect grace!

W. M. MacKeracher

On Seeing Through A Distant Window A Belle Completing Her Toilet For A Ball.

'Tis well - 'tis well - that clustering shade
Is on thy forehead sweetly laid;
And that light curl that slumbers by
Makes deeper yet thy depth of eye;
And that white rose that decks thy hair
Just wins the eye to linger there,
Yet makes it not to note the less
The beauty of that raven tress.

Thy coral necklace? - ear-rings too?
Nay - nay - not them - no darker hue
Than thy white bosom be to-night
On that fair neck the bar of light,
Or hide the veins that faintly glow
And wander in its living snow.

What! - yet another? can it be
That neck needs ornament to thee? -
Yet not thy jewels! - they are bright,
But that dark eye has softer light,
And tho' each gem had been a star,
Thy simple self were lovelier far -
Yet stay! - that string...

Nathaniel Parker Willis

Thou Art Queen

Thou art queen to every eye,
    When the fairest maids convene.
Envy's self can not deny
    Thou art queen.

In thy step thy right is seen,
    In thy beauty pure and high,
In thy grace of air and mien.

Thine unworthy vassal I,
    Lay my hands thy hands between;
Kneeling at thy feet I cry
    Thou art queen!

Robert Fuller Murray