Footsteps In The Street

Oh, will the footsteps never be done?
            The insolent feet
            Thronging the street,
Forsaken now of the only one.

The only one out of all the throng,
            Whose footfall I knew,
            And could tell it so true,
That I leapt to see as she passed along,

As she passed along with her beautiful face,
            Which knew full well
            Though it did not tell,
That I was there in the window-space.

Now my sense is never so clear.
            It cheats my heart,
            Making me start
A thousand times, when she is not near.

When she is not near, but so far away,
            I could not come
            To the place of her home,
Though I travelled and sought for a month and a day.

Do you wonder then if I wish the street
            Were grown with grass,
            And no foot might pass
Till she treads it again with her sacred feet?

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

Lost Liberty

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

On An Edinburgh Advocate

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Youth Renewed

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Lost At Sea

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 Failing Track

Where went the feet that hitherto have come?
    Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past!
With lengthening pauses broke, the path grows dumb;
    The grass floats in; the gazer stands aghast.

Tremble not, maiden, though the footprints die;
    By no air-path ascend the lark's clear notes;
The mighty-throated when he mounts the sky
    Over some lowly landmark sings and floats.

Be of good cheer. Paths vanish from the wave;
    There all the ships tear each its track of gray;
Undaunted they the wandering desert brave:
    In each a magic finger points the way.

No finger finely touched, no eye of lark
    Hast thou to guide thy steps where footprints fail?
Ah, then, 'twere well to turn before the dark,
    Nor dream to find thy dreams in yonder...

George MacDonald

After Many Days

The mist hangs round the College tower,
    The ghostly street
Is silent at this midnight hour,
    Save for my feet.

With none to see, with none to hear,
    Downward I go
To where, beside the rugged pier,
    The sea sings low.

It sings a tune well loved and known
    In days gone by,
When often here, and not alone,
    I watched the sky.

That was a barren time at best,
    Its fruits were few;
But fruits and flowers had keener zest
    And fresher hue.

Life has not since been wholly vain,
    And now I bear
Of wisdom plucked from joy and pain
    Some slender share.

But, howsoever rich the store,
    I'd lay it down,
To feel upon my back once more
    The old red gown.

Robert Fuller Murray

Footsteps Of Angels.

When the hours of Day are numbered,
    And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
    To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
    And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
    Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
    Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
    Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
    Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
    Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
    Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
    Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Trafalgar Square

These verses have I pilfered like a bee
Out of a letter from my C. C. C.
    In London, showing what befell him there,
With other things, of interest to me.

One page described a night in open air
He spent last summer in Trafalgar Square,
    With men and women who by want are driven
Thither for lodging, when the nights are fair.

No roof there is between their heads and heaven,
No warmth but what by ragged clothes is given,
    No comfort but the company of those
Who with despair, like them, have vainly striven.

On benches there uneasily they doze,
Snatching brief morsels of a poor repose,
    And if through weariness they might sleep sound,
Their eyes must open almost ere they close.

With even tramp upon the paven ground,
Twice eve...

Robert Fuller Murray

The Solitary

I have been lonely all my days on earth,
    Living a life within my secret soul,
With mine own springs of sorrow and of mirth,
            Beyond the world's control.

Though sometimes with vain longing I have sought
    To walk the paths where other mortals tread,
To wear the clothes for other mortals wrought,
            And eat the selfsame bread--

Yet have I ever found, when thus I strove
    To mould my life upon the common plan,
That I was furthest from all truth and love,
            And least a living man.

Truth frowned upon my poor hypocrisy,
    Life left my soul, and dwelt but in my sense;
No man could love me, for all men could see
            The hollow vain pretence.

Their clothes sat on me with outlandish air,
    Up...

Robert Fuller Murray

Four-Feet

I have done mostly what most men do,
And pushed it out of my mind;
But I can't forget, if I wanted to,
Four-Feet trotting behind.

Day after day, the whole day through,
Wherever my road inclined,
Four-feet said, "I am coming with you!"
And trotted along behind.

Now I must go by some other round,,
Which I shall never find,
Somewhere that does not carry the sound
Of Four-Feet trotting behind.

Rudyard