Song Is Not Dead

Song is not dead, although to-day
    Men tell us everything is said.
There yet is something left to say,
    Song is not dead.

While still the evening sky is red,
    While still the morning gold and grey,
While still the autumn leaves are shed,

While still the heart of youth is gay,
    And honour crowns the hoary head,
While men and women love and pray
    Song is not dead.

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

Nightfall

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Art's Discipline

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Hymn Of Hippolytus To Artemis

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A December Day

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.

The Voice That Sings

The voice that sings across the night
    Of long forgotten days and things,
Is there an ear to hear aright
    The voice that sings?

It is as when a curfew rings
    Melodious in the dying light,
A sound that flies on pulsing wings.

And faded eyes that once were bright
    Brim over, as to life it brings
The echo of a dead delight,
    The voice that sings.

Robert Fuller Murray

All Sung

What shall I sing when all is sung,
And every tale is told,
And in the world is nothing young
That was not long since old?

Why should I fret unwilling ears
With old things sung anew,
While voices from the old dead years
Still go on singing too?

A dead man singing of his maid
Makes all my rhymes in vain,
Yet his poor lips must fade and fade,
And mine shall kiss again.

Why should I strive through weary moons
To make my music true?
Only the dead men knew the tunes
The live world dances to.

Richard Le Gallienne

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

Love Recalled In Sleep

There was a time when in your face
    There dwelt such power, and in your smile
I know not what of magic grace;
    They held me captive for a while.

Ah, then I listened for your voice!
    Like music every word did fall,
Making the hearts of men rejoice,
    And mine rejoiced the most of all.

At sight of you, my soul took flame.
    But now, alas! the spell is fled.
Is it that you are not the same,
    Or only that my love is dead?

I know not--but last night I dreamed
    That you were walking by my side,
And sweet, as once you were, you seemed,
    And all my heart was glorified.

Your head against my shoulder lay,
    And round your waist my arm was pressed,
And as we walked a well-known way,
    Love was between us bo...

Robert Fuller Murray

Spring Song

        Days of old,
    Ye are not dead, though gone from me;
        Ye are not cold,
    But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea.

    The sun brings back the swallows fast
        O'er the sea;
    When he cometh at the last,
    The days of old come back to me.

George MacDonald

A Song Of Truce

Till the tread of marching feet
Through the quiet grass-grown street
Of the little town shall come,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

While the banners idly hang,
While the bugles do not clang,
While is hushed the clamorous drum,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

In the breathing-time of Death,
While the sword is in its sheath,
While the cannon's mouth is dumb,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

Not too long the rest shall be.
Soon enough, to Death and thee,
The assembly call shall come.
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

Robert Fuller Murray