Golden Dream

Golden dream of summer morn,
    By a well-remembered stream
In the land where I was born,
            Golden dream!

Ripples, by the glancing beam
    Lightly kissed in playful scorn,
Meadows moist with sunlit steam.

When I lift my eyelids worn
    Like a fair mirage you seem,
In the winter dawn forlorn,
            Golden dream!

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

A Street Corner

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

An Interview

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A College Career

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Bunch Of Triolets

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.

A Summer Morning

Never was sun so bright before,
    No matin of the lark so sweet,
    No grass so green beneath my feet,
Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.

I stand with thee outside the door,
    The air not yet is close with heat,
    And far across the yellowing wheat
The waves are breaking on the shore.

A lovely day!    Yet many such,
    Each like to each, this month have passed,
            And none did so supremely shine.
One thing they lacked: the perfect touch
    Of thee--and thou art come at last,
            And half this loveliness is thine.

Robert Fuller Murray

Dawn Song

I hear a twittering of birds,
    And now they burst in song.
How sweet, although it wants the words!
    It shall not want them long,
For I will set some to the note
Which bubbles from the thrush's throat.

O jewelled night, that reign'st on high,
    Where is thy crescent moon?
Thy stars have faded from the sky,
    The sun is coming soon.
The summer night is passed away,
Sing welcome to the summer day.

Robert Fuller Murray

Ichabod

Gone is the glory from the hills,
    The autumn sunshine from the mere,
    Which mourns for the declining year
In all her tributary rills.

A sense of change obscurely chills
    The misty twilight atmosphere,
    In which familiar things appear
Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills.

The twilight hour a month ago
    Was full of pleasant warmth and ease,
            The pearl of all the twenty-four.
Erelong the winter gales shall blow,
    Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze--
            And oh, that it were June once more!

Robert Fuller Murray

The Golden Dream.

In midnight dreams the Wizard came,
And beckoned me away
With tempting hopes of wealth and fame,
He cheered my lonely way.
He led me o'er a dusky heath,
And there a river swept,
Whose gay and glassy tide beneath,
Uncounted treasure, slept.
The wooing ripples lightly dashed
Around the cherished store,
And circling eddies brightly flashed
Above the yellow ore.
I bent me o'er the deep smooth stream,
And plunged the gold to get,
But oh! it vanished with my dream
And I got dripping wet!
O'er lonely heath and darksome hill,
As shivering home I went,
The mocking Wizard whispered shrill,
'Thou'dst better been content!'

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Fickle Summer

Fickle Summer's fled away,
    Shall we see her face again?
    Hearken to the weeping rain,
Never sunbeam greets the day.

More inconstant than the May,
    She cares nothing for our pain,
    Nor will hear the birds complain
In their bowers that once were gay.

Summer, Summer, come once more,
    Drive the shadows from the field,
            All thy radiance round thee fling,
Be our lady as of yore;
    Then the earth her fruits shall yield,
            Then the morning stars shall sing.

Robert Fuller Murray

The Dream

I have a dream
to fill the golden sheath
of a remembered day....
(Air
heavy and massed and blue
as the vapor of opium...
domes
fired in sulphurous mist...
sea
quiescent as a gray seal...
and the emerging sun
spurting up gold
over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay....)
But the day is an up-turned cup
and its sun a junk of red iron
guttering in sluggish-green water -
where shall I pour my dream?

Lola Ridge