Yet A Little Sleep

Beside the drowsy streams that creep
    Within this island of repose,
    Oh, let us rest from cares and woes,
Oh, let us fold our hands to sleep!

Is it ignoble, then, to keep
    Awhile from where the rough wind blows,
    And all is strife, and no man knows
What end awaits him on the deep?

The voyager may rest awhile,
    When rest invites, and yet may be
            Neither a sluggard nor a craven.
With strength renewed he quits the isle,
    And putting out again to sea,
            Makes sail for his desired haven.

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 Close Of The Session

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Love's Phantom

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Haunted Chamber

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.

Sleep Flies Me

Sleep flies me like a lover
    Too eagerly pursued,
Or like a bird to cover
    Within some distant wood,
Where thickest boughs roof over
    Her secret solitude.

The nets I spread to snare her,
    Although with cunning wrought,
Have only served to scare her,
    And now she'll not be caught.
To those who best could spare her,
    She ever comes unsought.

She lights upon their pillows;
    She gives them pleasant dreams,
Grey-green with leaves of willows,
    And cool with sound of streams,
Or big with tranquil billows,
    On which the starlight gleams.

No vision fair entrances
    My weary open eye,
No marvellous romances
    Make night go swiftly by;
But only feverish fancies
    Beset me where I lie.

Robert Fuller Murray

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,
Beyond the noise of sorrow and of crying,
    Beyond the dread of dreaming, shall we rest?

Or shall there come at last desire of waking,
    To walk again on hillsides that we know,
When sunrise through the cold white mist is breaking,
    Or in the stillness of the after-glow?

Shall there be yearning for the sound of voices,
    The sight of faces, and the touch of hands,
The will that works, the spirit that rejoices,
    The heart that feels, the mind that understands?
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Robert Fuller Murray

Nightfall

Let me sleep.    The day is past,
    And the folded shadows keep
Weary mortals safe and fast.
            Let me sleep.

I am all too tired to weep
    For the sunlight of the Past
Sunk within the drowning deep.

Treasured vanities I cast
    In an unregarded heap.
Time has given rest at last.
            Let me sleep.

Robert Fuller Murray

Sleep

Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound
    Seems from some faint Aeolian harp-string caught;
    Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought
    As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound
The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound;
    For I am weary, and am overwrought
    With too much toil, with too much care distraught,
    And with the iron crown of anguish crowned.
Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek,
    O peaceful Sleep! until from pain released
    I breathe again uninterrupted breath!
Ah, with what subtile meaning did the Greek
    Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast
    Whereof the greater mystery is death!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Indolence

Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I
    Thy strong solicitations to withstand.
    Plenty of work lies ready to my hand,
Which rests irresolute, and lets it lie.

How can I work, when that seductive sky
    Smiles through the window, beautiful and bland,
    And seems to half entreat and half command
My presence out of doors beneath its eye?

Will not the air be fresh, the water blue,
    The smell of beanfields, blowing to the shore,
            Better than these poor drooping purchased flowers?
Good-bye, dull books!    Hot room, good-bye to you!
    And think it strange if I return before
            The sea grows purple in the evening hours.

Robert Fuller Murray

Rest

I.

    When round the earth the Father's hands
        Have gently drawn the dark;
    Sent off the sun to fresher lands,
        And curtained in the lark;
    'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day,
        To fade with fading light,
    And lie once more, the old weary way,
        Upfolded in the night.

    If mothers o'er our slumbers bend,
        And unripe kisses reap,
    In soothing dreams with sleep they blend,
        Till even in dreams we sleep.
    And if we wake while night is dumb,
        'Tis sweet to turn and say,
    It is an hour ere dawning come,
        And I will sleep till day.


II.

    There is a dearer, warmer bed,
        Where one all day may lie,
    Earth's bosom pillowing the hea...

George MacDonald