The Poet's Hat

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
    He passed through the doorway into the street,
A strong wind lifted his hat from his head,
    And he uttered some words that were far from sweet.
And then he started to follow the chase,
    And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet,
It made the people pause in a crowd,
    And lay odds as to which would beat.

The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat,
    The errand-boy shouted hooray!
The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand,
    And smiled in a very rude way;
And the clergyman thought, 'I have heard many words,
    But never, until to-day,
Did I hear any words that were quite so bad
    As I heard that young man say.'

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

In Time Of Sickness

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Patriotism

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Bunch Of Triolets

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Ballad Of Refreshment

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.

On A Crushed Hat

Brown was my friend, and faithful--but so fat!
    He came to see me in the twilight dim;
    I rose politely and invited him
To take a seat--how heavily he sat!

He sat upon the sofa, where my hat,
    My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim;
    Its build, unlike my friend's, was rather slim,
And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.

O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye,
    Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown,
            And I shall never wear thee any more;
Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie,
    And with the years the dust will settle down
            On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!

Robert Fuller Murray

An Interview

I met him down upon the pier;
    His eyes were wild and sad,
And something in them made me fear
    That he was going mad.

So, being of a prudent sort,
    I stood some distance off,
And before speaking gave a short
    Conciliatory cough.

I then observed, 'What makes you look
    So singularly glum?'
No notice of my words he took.
    I said, 'Pray, are you dumb?'

'Oh no!' he said, 'I do not think
    My power of speech is lost,
But when one's hopes are black as ink,
    Why, talking is a frost.

'You see, I'm in for Math. again,
    And certain to be ploughed.
Please tell me where I could obtain
    An inexpensive shroud.'

I told him where such things are had,
    Well made, and not too dear;
And, f...

Robert Fuller Murray

How A Cat Was Annoyed And A Poet Was Booted

A poet had a cat.
There is nothing odd in that--
(I might make a little pun about the Mews!)
But what is really more
Remarkable, she wore
A pair of pointed patent-leather shoes.
And I doubt me greatly whether
E'er you heard the like of that:
Pointed shoes of patent-leather
On a cat!

His time he used to pass
Writing sonnets, on the grass--
(I might say something good on pen and sward!)
While the cat sat near at hand,
Trying hard to understand
The poems he occasionally roared.
(I myself possess a feline,
But when poetry I roar
He is sure to make a bee-line
For the door.)

The poet, cent by cent,
All his patrimony spent--
(I might tell how he went from werse to werse!...

Guy Wetmore Carryl

Adventure Of A Poet

As I was walking down the street
    A week ago,
Near Henderson's I chanced to meet
    A man I know.

His name is Alexander Bell,
    His home, Dundee;
I do not know him quite so well
    As he knows me.

He gave my hand a hearty shake,
    Discussed the weather,
And then proposed that we should take
    A stroll together.

Down College Street we took our way,
    And there we met
The beautiful Miss Mary Gray,
    That arch coquette,
Who stole last spring my heart away
    And has it yet.

That smile with which my bow she greets,
    Would it were fonder!
Or else less fond--since she its sweets
    On all must squander.
Thus, when I meet her in the streets,
    I sadly ponder,
And after her, as she r...

Robert Fuller Murray

Heat-Lightning

There was a curious quiet for a space
Directly following: and in the face
Of one rapt listener pulsed the flush and glow
Of the heat-lightning that pent passions throw
Long ere the crash of speech. - He broke the spell -
The host: - The Traveler's story, told so well,
He said, had wakened there within his breast
A yearning, as it were, to know the rest -
That all unwritten sequence that the Lord
Of Righteousness must write with flame and sword,
Some awful session of His patient thought -
Just then it was, his good old mother caught
His blazing eye - so that its fire became
But as an ember - though it burned the same.
It seemed to her, she said, that she had heard
It was the Heavenly Parent never erred,
And not the earthly one that had such...

James Whitcomb Riley

Prelude - The Wayside Inn - Part Second

A cold, uninterrupted rain,
That washed each southern window-pane,
And made a river of the road;
A sea of mist that overflowed
The house, the barns, the gilded vane,
And drowned the upland and the plain,
Through which the oak-trees, broad and high,
Like phantom ships went drifting by;
And, hidden behind a watery screen,
The sun unseen, or only seen
As a faint pallor in the sky;--
Thus cold and colorless and gray,
The morn of that autumnal day,
As if reluctant to begin,
Dawned on the silent Sudbury Inn,
And all the guests that in it lay.

Full late they slept.    They did not hear
The challenge of Sir Chanticleer,
Who on the empty threshing-floor,
Disdainful of the rain outside,
Was strutting with a martial stride,
As if upon his t...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow