The Wasted Day

Another day let slip!    Its hours have run,
    Its golden hours, with prodigal excess,
    All run to waste.    A day of life the less;
Of many wasted days, alas, but one!

Through my west window streams the setting sun.
    I kneel within my chamber, and confess
    My sin and sorrow, filled with vain distress,
In place of honest joy for work well done.

At noon I passed some labourers in a field.
    The sweat ran down upon each sunburnt face,
            Which shone like copper in the ardent glow.
And one looked up, with envy unconcealed,
    Beholding my cool cheeks and listless pace,
            Yet he was happier, though he did not know.

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

A Bunch Of Triolets

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Love's Phantom

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Footsteps In The Street

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Pleasant Prophecies

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.

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

A Day Redeemed.

I rose, and idly sauntered to the pane,
And on the March-bleak mountain bent my look;
And standing there a sad review I took
Of what the day had brought me. What the gain
To Wisdom's store? What holds had Knowledge ta'en?
I mused upon the lightly-handled book,
The erring thought, and felt a stern rebuke:
"Alas, alas! the day hath been in vain!"

But as I gazed upon the upper blue,
With many a twining jasper ridge up-ploughed,
Sudden, up-soaring, swung upon my view
A molten, rolling, sunset-laden cloud:
My spirit stood, and caught its glorious hue -
"Not lost the day!" it, leaping, cried aloud.

W. M. MacKeracher

After Many Days

The mist hangs round the College tower,
    The ghostly street
Is silent at this midnight hour,
    Save for my feet.

With none to see, with none to hear,
    Downward I go
To where, beside the rugged pier,
    The sea sings low.

It sings a tune well loved and known
    In days gone by,
When often here, and not alone,
    I watched the sky.

That was a barren time at best,
    Its fruits were few;
But fruits and flowers had keener zest
    And fresher hue.

Life has not since been wholly vain,
    And now I bear
Of wisdom plucked from joy and pain
    Some slender share.

But, howsoever rich the store,
    I'd lay it down,
To feel upon my back once more
    The old red gown.

Robert Fuller Murray

The Outcast's Farewell

The sun is banished,
The daylight vanished,
No rosy traces
    Are left behind.
Here in the meadow
I watch the shadow
Of forms and faces
    Upon your blind.

Through swift transitions,
In new positions,
My eyes still follow
    One shape most fair.
My heart delaying
Awhile, is playing
With pleasures hollow,
    Which mock despair.

I feel so lonely,
I long once only
To pass an hour
    With you, O sweet!
To touch your fingers,
Where fragrance lingers
From some rare flower,
    And kiss your feet.

But not this even
To me is given.
Of all sad mortals
    Most sad am I,
Never to meet you,
Never to greet you,
Nor pass your portals
    Before I die.

All men scorn ...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Summer Morning

Never was sun so bright before,
    No matin of the lark so sweet,
    No grass so green beneath my feet,
Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.

I stand with thee outside the door,
    The air not yet is close with heat,
    And far across the yellowing wheat
The waves are breaking on the shore.

A lovely day!    Yet many such,
    Each like to each, this month have passed,
            And none did so supremely shine.
One thing they lacked: the perfect touch
    Of thee--and thou art come at last,
            And half this loveliness is thine.

Robert Fuller Murray

A Commonplace Day

The day is turning ghost,
And scuttles from the kalendar in fits and furtively,
To join the anonymous host
Of those that throng oblivion; ceding his place, maybe,
To one of like degree.

I part the fire-gnawed logs,
Rake forth the embers, spoil the busy flames, and lay the ends
Upon the shining dogs;
Further and further from the nooks the twilight's stride extends,
And beamless black impends.

Nothing of tiniest worth
Have I wrought, pondered, planned; no one thing asking blame or praise,
Since the pale corpse-like birth
Of this diurnal unit, bearing blanks in all its rays -
Dullest of dull-hued Days!

Wanly upon the panes
The rain slides as have slid since morn my colourless thoughts; and yet
Here, while Day's presence wanes,
And over...

Thomas Hardy