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

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 Solitary

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Golf-Ball And The Loan. After Longfellow

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Outcast's Farewell

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

In Time Of Sorrow

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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

September

Now hath the summer reached her golden close,
And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul,
Scarcely perceives from her divine repose
How near, how swift, the inevitable goal:
Still, still, she smiles, though from her careless feet
The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone,
And through the soft long wondering days goes on
The silent sere decadence sad and sweet.

The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled,
Children of light, too fearful of the gloom;
The sun falls low, the secret word is said,
The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb;
Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace,
The cone-flower and the marguerite; and no more,
Across the river's shadow-haunted floor,
The paths of skimming swallows interlace.

Already in the outland wi...

Archibald Lampman

In Time Of Sorrow

Despair is in the suns that shine,
    And in the rains that fall,
This sad forsaken soul of mine
    Is weary of them all.

They fall and shine on alien streets
    From those I love and know.
I cannot hear amid the heats
    The North Sea's freshening flow

The people hurry up and down,
    Like ghosts that cannot lie;
And wandering through the phantom town
    The weariest ghost am I.

Robert Fuller Murray

Winter At St. Andrews

The city once again doth wear
    Her wonted dress of winter's bride,
Her mantle woven of misty air,
    With saffron sunlight faintly dyed.
She sits above the seething tide,
    Of all her summer robes forlorn--
And dead is all her summer pride--
    The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.

All round, the landscape stretches bare,
    The bleak fields lying far and wide,
Monotonous, with here and there
    A lone tree on a lone hillside.
No more the land is glorified
    With golden gleams of ripening corn,
Scarce is a cheerful hue descried--
    The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.

For me, I do not greatly care
    Though leaves be dead, and mists abide.
To me the place is thrice as fair
    In winter as in summer-tide:
With k...

Robert Fuller Murray

Songs Of The Autumn Days

    I.

    We bore him through the golden land,
    One early harvest morn;
    The corn stood ripe on either hand--
    He knew all about the corn.

    How shall the harvest gathered be
    Without him standing by?
    Without him walking on the lea,
    The sky is scarce a sky.

    The year's glad work is almost done;
    The land is rich in fruit;
    Yellow it floats in air and sun--
    Earth holds it by the root.

    Why should earth hold it for a day
    When harvest-time is come?
    Death is triumphant o'er decay,
    And leads the ripened home.


    II.

    And though the sun be not so warm,
    His shining is not lost;
    Both corn and hope, of heart and farm,
    Lie hid from coming...

George MacDonald