Nightfall

Let me sleep.    The day is past,
    And the folded shadows keep
Weary mortals safe and fast.
            Let me sleep.

I am all too tired to weep
    For the sunlight of the Past
Sunk within the drowning deep.

Treasured vanities I cast
    In an unregarded heap.
Time has given rest at last.
            Let me sleep.

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

On A Crushed Hat

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

To Number 27X.

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Triolet

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Fickle Summer

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Sleep Flies Me

Sleep flies me like a lover
    Too eagerly pursued,
Or like a bird to cover
    Within some distant wood,
Where thickest boughs roof over
    Her secret solitude.

The nets I spread to snare her,
    Although with cunning wrought,
Have only served to scare her,
    And now she'll not be caught.
To those who best could spare her,
    She ever comes unsought.

She lights upon their pillows;
    She gives them pleasant dreams,
Grey-green with leaves of willows,
    And cool with sound of streams,
Or big with tranquil billows,
    On which the starlight gleams.

No vision fair entrances
    My weary open eye,
No marvellous romances
    Make night go swiftly by;
But only feverish fancies
    Beset me where I lie.

Robert Fuller Murray

A Late Good Night

My lamp is out, my task is done,
    And up the stair with lingering feet
I climb.    The staircase clock strikes one.
    Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!

My solitary room I gain.
    A single star makes incomplete
The blackness of the window pane.
    Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!

Dim and more dim its sparkle grows,
    And ere my head the pillows meet,
My lids are fain themselves to close.
    Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!

My lips no other words can say,
    But still they murmur and repeat
To you, who slumber far away,
    Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!

Robert Fuller Murray

The House Of Sleep

When we have laid aside our last endeavour,
    And said farewell to one or two that weep,
And issued from the house of life for ever,
    To find a lodging in the house of sleep--

With eyes fast shut, in sunless chambers lying,
    With folded arms unmoved upon the breast,
Beyond the noise of sorrow and of crying,
    Beyond the dread of dreaming, shall we rest?

Or shall there come at last desire of waking,
    To walk again on hillsides that we know,
When sunrise through the cold white mist is breaking,
    Or in the stillness of the after-glow?

Shall there be yearning for the sound of voices,
    The sight of faces, and the touch of hands,
The will that works, the spirit that rejoices,
    The heart that feels, the mind that understands?
<...

Robert Fuller Murray

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

Nightfall

Fold up the tent!
The sun is in the West.
To-morrow my untented soul will range
Among the blest.
    And I am well content,
    For what is sent, is sent,
    And God knows best.

Fold up the tent,
And speed the parting guest!
The night draws on, though night and day are one
On this long quest.
    This house was only lent
    For my apprenticement--
    What is, is best.

Fold up the tent!
Its slack ropes all undone,
Its pole all broken, and its cover rent,--
Its work is done.
    But mine--tho' spoiled and spent
    Mine earthly tenement--
    Is but begun.

Fold up the tent!
Its tenant would be gone,
To fairer skies than mortal eyes
May look upon.
All that I loved has passed,
And left me at th...

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Yet A Little Sleep

Beside the drowsy streams that creep
    Within this island of repose,
    Oh, let us rest from cares and woes,
Oh, let us fold our hands to sleep!

Is it ignoble, then, to keep
    Awhile from where the rough wind blows,
    And all is strife, and no man knows
What end awaits him on the deep?

The voyager may rest awhile,
    When rest invites, and yet may be
            Neither a sluggard nor a craven.
With strength renewed he quits the isle,
    And putting out again to sea,
            Makes sail for his desired haven.

Robert Fuller Murray