Make-Believes

When I was young and well and glad,
I used to play at being sad;
Now youth and health are fled away,
At being glad I sometimes play.

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 Banished Bejant. From The Unpublished Remains Of Edgar Allan Poe

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Death At The Window

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

To The Reader Of 'University Notes'

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.

Youth Renewed

When one who has wandered out of the way
    Which leads to the hills of joy,
Whose heart has grown both cold and grey,
    Though it be but the heart of a boy--
When such a one turns back his feet
    From the valley of shadow and pain,
Is not the sunshine passing sweet,
    When a man grows young again?

How gladly he mounts up the steep hillside,
    With strength that is born anew,
And in his veins, like a full springtide,
    The blood streams through and through.
And far above is the summit clear,
    And his heart to be there is fain,
And all too slowly it comes more near
    When a man grows young again.

He breathes the pure sweet mountain breath,
    And it widens all his heart,
And life seems no more kin to death,
    Nor de...

Robert Fuller Murray

Vanity Of Vanities

Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away.
Ye shall pass and be forgot,
And your place shall know you not.

Other generations rise,
With the same hope in their eyes
That in yours is kindled now,
And the same light on their brow.

They shall see the selfsame sun
That your eyes now gaze upon,
They shall breathe the same sweet air,
And shall reck not who ye were.

Yet they too shall fade at last
In the twilight of the past,
They and you alike shall be
Lost from the world's memory.

Then, while yet ye breathe and live,
Drink the cup that life can give.
Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away,

Ere the golden bowl be broken,
Ere ye pass and leave no token,
Ere the silver cord be loosed,

Robert Fuller Murray

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

In Time Of Sickness

Lost Youth, come back again!
Laugh at weariness and pain.
Come not in dreams, but come in truth,
            Lost Youth.

Sweetheart of long ago,
Why do you haunt me so?
Were you not glad to part,
            Sweetheart?

Still Death, that draws so near,
Is it hope you bring, or fear?
Is it only ease of breath,
            Still Death?

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

Be Happy.

Some fowk ivverlastinly grummel,
At th' world an at th' fowk ther is in it;
If across owt 'at's pleasant they stummel,
They try to pick faults in a minnit.

We all have a strinklin o' care,
An they're lucky 'at ne'er meet a trubble,
But aw think its unkind, an unfair,
To mak ivvery misfortun seem double.

Some grummel if th' sun doesn't shine, -
If it does they find cause for complainin;
Discontented when th' weather wor fine,
They start findin fault if its rainin.

Aw hate sich dissatisfied men,
An fowk 'at's detarmined to do soa,
Aw'd mak 'em goa live bi thersen,
Aght o'th' world, - like a Robinson Crusoe.

To mak th' pleasures surraandin us less,
Ivvery reight-minded man must think sinful;
When ther's soa mich to cheer us an bl...

John Hartley