Triolet

After the melting of the snow
    Divines depart and April comes;
Examinations nearer grow
After the melting of the snow;
The grinder wears a face of woe,
    The waster smokes and twirls his thumbs;
After the melting of the snow
    Divines depart and April comes.

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 Summer Morning

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The City Of Golf

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Burial Of William The Conqueror

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Tempted Soul

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.

A Swinburnian Interlude

Short space shall be hereafter
    Ere April brings the hour
Of weeping and of laughter,
    Of sunshine and of shower,
Of groaning and of gladness,
Of singing and of sadness,
Of melody and madness,
    Of all sweet things and sour.

Sweet to the blithe bucolic
    Who knows nor cribs nor crams,
Who sees the frisky frolic
    Of lanky little lambs;
But sour beyond expression
To one in deep depression
Who sees the closing session
    And imminent exams.

He cannot hear the singing
    Of birds upon the bents,
Nor watch the wildflowers springing,
    Nor smell the April scents.
He gathers grief with grinding,
Foul food of sorrow finding
In books of dreary binding
    And drearier contents.

One hope alone su...

Robert Fuller Murray

Ichabod

Gone is the glory from the hills,
    The autumn sunshine from the mere,
    Which mourns for the declining year
In all her tributary rills.

A sense of change obscurely chills
    The misty twilight atmosphere,
    In which familiar things appear
Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills.

The twilight hour a month ago
    Was full of pleasant warmth and ease,
            The pearl of all the twenty-four.
Erelong the winter gales shall blow,
    Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze--
            And oh, that it were June once more!

Robert Fuller Murray

The Waster's Presentiment

I shall be spun.    There is a voice within
    Which tells me plainly I am all undone;
For though I toil not, neither do I spin,
            I shall be spun.

April approaches.    I have not begun
    Schwegler or Mackintosh, nor will begin
Those lucid works till April 21.

So my degree I do not hope to win,
    For not by ways like mine degrees are won;
And though, to please my uncle, I go in,
            I shall be spun.

Robert Fuller Murray

The Waster's Presentiment

    I shall be spun.    There is a voice within
            Which tells me plainly I am all undone;
    For though I toil not, neither do I spin,
                I shall be spun.

    April approaches.    I have not begun
            Schwegler or Mackintosh, nor will begin
    Those lucid works till April 21.

    So my degree I do not hope to win,
            For not by ways like mine degrees are won;
    And though, to please my uncle, I go in,
                I shall be spun.

Robert Fuller Murray

The April Snow-Storm - 1858.

Spread lightly, virgin shower,
Your winding-sheet of snow;
Winter has lost his power,
But mock not at his woe.

Fall not so cold and bleak,
Nor blow the breath of scorn;
Gently.    Thy sire is weak;
And thou, his latest-born.

Frail type of life thou art:
At first, pure as the snow
We come - abide - depart;
What more, th' Immortals know.

Fall gently, virgin shower,
Though wild the west wind raves;
Watch through this midnight hour
Above the new-made graves!

            -    -    -

Spread gently, virgin shower,
Your winding sheet of snow;
My heart has lost its power,
But mock not at its woe.

Fall not so cold and bleak,
Treat not her corse with scorn;
Gently.    My heart is weak;
She, too, ...

Charles Sangster

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