My Lady

My Lady of all ladies!    Queen by right
    Of tender beauty; full of gentle moods;
    With eyes that look divine beatitudes,
Large eyes illumined with her spirit's light;

Lips that are lovely both by sound and sight,
    Breathing such music as the dove, which broods
    Within the dark and silence of the woods,
Croons to the mate that is her heart's delight.

Where is a line, in cloud or wave or hill,
    To match the curve which rounds her soft-flushed cheek?
            A colour, in the sky of morn or of even,
To match that flush?    Ah, let me now be still!
    If of her spirit I should strive to speak,
            I should come short, as earth comes short of heaven.

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

Hope Deferred

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A May-Day Madrigal

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The M.A. Degree. After Wordsworth

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Banished Bejant. From The Unpublished Remains Of Edgar Allan Poe

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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Sweetheart

Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know,
    More fair to me
Than flowers that make the loveliest show
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When other girls, whose faces are,
    Beside thy face,
As rushlights to the evening star,
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I silent sit and let them speak,
    As men of strength
Allow the impotent and weak
    To rail at length.

If they should tell me Love is blind,
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    I'd answer this:

Envy is blind; not Love, whose eyes
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Through gazing on the perfect skies
    Of thine, my dear.

Robert Fuller Murray

When My Sweet Lady Sings

When she, my lady, smiles,
I feel as one who, lost in darksome wilds,
Sees suddenly the sun in middle sky
Shining upon him like a great glad eye.
    When my sweet lady smiles.

When she, my lady laughs,
I feel as one who some elixir quaffs;
Some nameless nectar, made of wines of suns,
And through my veins a subtle iveresse runs.
    When my sweet lady laughs.

And when my lady talks,
I am as one who by a brooklet walks,
Some sweet-tongued brooklet, which the whole long day,
Holds converse with the birds along the way.
    When my loved lady talks.

And when my lady sings,
Oh then I hear the beat of silver wings;
All that is earthly from beneath me slips,
And in the liquid cadence of her lips
I float, so near the Infinite, I seem<...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Praise Of My Lady

My lady seems of ivory
Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be
Hollow'd a little mournfully.
            Beata mea Domina!

Her forehead, overshadow'd much
By bows of hair, has a wave such
As God was good to make for me.
            Beata mea Domina!

Not greatly long my lady's hair,
Nor yet with yellow colour fair,
But thick and crispèd wonderfully:
            Beata mea Domina!

Heavy to make the pale face sad,
And dark, but dead as though it had
Been forged by God most wonderfully
            Beata mea Domina!

Of some strange metal, thread by thread,
To stand out from my lady's head,
Not moving much to tangle me.
            Beata mea Domina!

Beneath her brows the lids fal...

William Morris

Words

Adapted to a Spanish Melody.




My lady hath as soft a hand
As any queen in fairy-land;
And, hidden in her tiny boot,
As dainty and as light a foot.
                    Her foot!
Her little hand and foot!

No star that kindles in the sky
Burns brighter than my lady's eye;
And ne'er before did beauty grace
So fair a form, so sweet a face!
                    Her face!
Her gentle form and face!

My lady hath a golden heart,
Free from the dross of worldly art;
Which, in the sight of heaven above,
Is mine with all its hoarded love!
                    Her love!
Her boundless wealth of love!

George Pope Morris

To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.


When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

    When I would paint thee as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart--
The graceful child in Beauty's dawn
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out--like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own loved Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;--

Thomas Moore

My Lady in her White Silk Shawl

    My lady in her white silk shawl
        Is like a lily dim,
    Within the twilight of the room
        Enthroned and kind and prim.

    My lady!    Pale gold is her hair.
        Until she smiles her face
    Is pale with far Hellenic moods,
        With thoughts that find no place

    In our harsh village of the West
        Wherein she lives of late,
    She's distant as far-hidden stars,
        And cold - (almost!) - as fate.

    But when she smiles she's here again
        Rosy with comrade-cheer,
    A Puritan Bacchante made
        To laugh around the year.

    The merry gentle moon herself,
        Heart-stirring too, like her,
    Wakening wild and innocent love
        In every worshipper.

Vachel Lindsay