Where's The Use

Oh, where's the use of having gifts that can't be turned to money?
    And where's the use of singing, when there's no one wants to hear?
It may be one or two will say your songs are sweet as honey,
    But where's the use of honey, when the loaf of bread is dear?

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

The Wasted Day

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Song Is Not Dead

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Stanzas For Music

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Tempted Soul

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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What's The Use?

Oh! What is living but moving about,
Buoyed up with hope and crushed down by doubt?
What is the draught of breath we harp on as life?
Naught but a sip of peace, a cup full of strife -
        What's the use?

What is the place we call our home, "sweet home"?
Naught but a span of space where one may roam:
Night's pitchy corner; a hard crust of bread;
Cot for your feeble limbs, pillow your head -
        What's the use?

Now, what is loving but acting a fool?
And what is quitting? - Producing a rule:
Break short the flight of Dan Cupid's swift dart,
Aimed at the core of an innocent heart!
        What's the use?

Say, what is marrying but getting in trouble?
Trifling 'way joy while your sorrow is double?
What, then, is your state my friend, a...

Edward Smyth Jones

What's The Use

What's the use o' folks a-frownin'
When the way's a little rough?
Frowns lay out the road fur smilin'
You'll be wrinkled soon enough.
What's the use?

What's the use o' folks a-sighin'?
It's an awful waste o' breath,
An' a body can't stand wastin'
What he needs so bad in death.
What's the use?

What's the use o' even weepin'?
Might as well go long an' smile.
Life, our longest, strongest arrow,
Only lasts a little while.
What's the use?

Paul Laurence Dunbar

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

Make The Most Of This Life.

    Make the most of this life; where the shadow reposes
        The beams of the summer shall gather in glee,
    And the snow on the graves of the lilies and roses
        But cradles the blooms that shall whiten the lea;
    Though the hopes of the heart be encircled with sorrow
        And billows of wretchedness mutter and roll,
    There shall come with the morn of the bountiful morrow
        The pleasures that gladden the desolate soul.

    Make the most of this life; where the carols are sleeping
        That rose in their rapture from lips of the spring,
    That awakened the world from its winter of weeping,
        Sweet songs shall be sung by the birds on the wing.
    Though the bosom be dark with the dirges of sadness
        And solitudes gather so heav...

Freeman Edwin Miller

No Want Where There's Little.

To bread and water none is poor;
And having these, what need of more?
Though much from out the cess be spent,
Nature with little is content.

Robert Herrick

Vanity Of Vanities

Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away.
Ye shall pass and be forgot,
And your place shall know you not.

Other generations rise,
With the same hope in their eyes
That in yours is kindled now,
And the same light on their brow.

They shall see the selfsame sun
That your eyes now gaze upon,
They shall breathe the same sweet air,
And shall reck not who ye were.

Yet they too shall fade at last
In the twilight of the past,
They and you alike shall be
Lost from the world's memory.

Then, while yet ye breathe and live,
Drink the cup that life can give.
Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away,

Ere the golden bowl be broken,
Ere ye pass and leave no token,
Ere the silver cord be loosed,

Robert Fuller Murray