Death At The Window

This morning, while we sat in talk
    Of spring and apple-bloom,
Lo!    Death stood in the garden walk,
    And peered into the room.

Your back was turned, you did not see
    The shadow that he made.
He bent his head and looked at me;
    It made my soul afraid.

The words I had begun to speak
    Fell broken in the air.
You saw the pallor of my cheek,
    And turned--but none was there.

He came as sudden as a thought,
    And so departed too.
What made him leave his task unwrought?
    It was the sight of you.

Though Death but seldom turns aside
    From those he means to take,
He would not yet our hearts divide,
    For love and pity's sake.

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

In Time Of Doubt

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

On An Edinburgh Advocate

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A December Day

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Tears

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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Last night I watched for Death -
So sick of life was I! -
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Death And The Dying.

^[1]

Death never taketh by surprise
The well-prepared, to wit, the wise -
They knowing of themselves the time
To meditate the final change of clime.
That time, alas! embraces all
Which into hours and minutes we divide;
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Unblushing Death will ravish all;
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No truth is better known; but, truth to say,
No truth is oftener thrown away.

A man, well in his second century,
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On Ne Badine Pas Avec La Mort

1

The dew was full of sun that morn
(Oh I heard the doves in the ladyricks coop!)
As he crossed the meadows beyond the corn,
Watching his falcon in the blue.
How could he hear my song so far,
The song of the blood where the pulses are!
Straight through the fields he came to me,
(Oh I saw his soul as I saw the dew!)
But I hid my joy that he might not see,
I hid it deep within my breast,
As the starling hides in the maize her nest.


2

Back through the corn he turned again,
(Oh little he cared where his falcon flew!)
And my heart lay still in the hand of pain,
As in winter's hand the rivers do.
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Death In A London Lodging

'Yes, Sir, she's gone at last - 'twas only five minutes ago
We heard her sigh from her corner, - she sat in the kitchen, you know:
We were all just busy on breakfast, John cleaning the boots, and I
Had just gone into the larder - but you could have heard that sigh
Right up in the garret, sir, for it seemed to pass one by
Like a puff of wind - may be 'twas her soul, who knows -
And we all looked up and ran to her - just in time to see her head
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So Mrs. Pownceby, meeting on the stairs
Her second-floor lodger, me, bound citywards,
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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