The Haunted Chamber

Life is a house where many chambers be,
    And all the doors will yield to him who tries,
    Save one, whereof men say, behind it lies
The haunting secret.    He who keeps the key,

Keeps it securely, smiles perchance to see
    The eager hands stretched out to clutch the prize,
    Or looks with pity in the yearning eyes,
And is half moved to let the secret free.

And truly some at every hour pass through,
    Pass through, and tread upon that solemn floor,
            Yet come not back to tell what they have found.
We will not importune, as others do,
    With tears and cries, the keeper of the door,
            But wait till our appointed hour comes round.

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

Cairnsmill Den--Tune: 'A Roving'

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Presentiment

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

To C. C. C.

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Swallows. From Jean Pierre Claris Florian

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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They are the wise who look before,
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Haunted Houses

All houses wherein men have lived and died
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The Door

    This is the room that thou wast ushered in.
    Wouldst thou, perchance, a larger freedom win?
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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,
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The Haunted Chamber

Each heart has its haunted chamber,
    Where the silent moonlight falls!
On the floor are mysterious footsteps,
    There are whispers along the walls!

And mine at times is haunted
    By phantoms of the Past
As motionless as shadows
    By the silent moonlight cast.

A form sits by the window,
    That is not seen by day,
For as soon as the dawn approaches
    It vanishes away.

It sits there in the moonlight
    Itself as pale and still,
And points with its airy finger
    Across the window-sill.

Without before the window,
    There stands a gloomy pine,
Whose boughs wave upward and downward
    As wave these thoughts of mine.

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The House Of Life

All wondering, and eager-eyed, within her portico
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Then Hostess Life turned silently, her searching gaze on me,
And with no word, she reached her hand, and offered up the key.

It opened first the door of Hope, and long I lingered there,
Until I spied the room of Dreams, just higher by a stair.

And then a door whereon the one word "Happiness" was writ;
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