Robert Fuller Murray

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,

In Algebra, if Algebra be ours,
x and x^2 can ne'er be equal powers,
Unless x=1, or none at all.

It is the little error in the sum,
That by and by will make the answer come
To something queer, or else not come at all.

The little error in the easy sum,
The little slit across the kettle-drum,
That makes the instrument not play at all.

It is not worth correcting: let it go:
But shall I?    Answer, Prudence, answer, no.
And bid me do it right or not at all.

The fire burns bright
And the hearth is clean swept,
As she likes it kept,
And the lamp is alight.
She is coming to-night.

The wind's east of late.
When she comes, she'll be cold,
So the big chair is rolled
Close up to the grate,
And I listen and wait.

The shutters are fast,
And the red curtains hide
Every hint of outside.
But hark, how the blast
Whistled then as it passed!

Or was it the train?
How long shall I stand,
With my watch in my hand,
And listen in vain
For the wheels in the lane?

Hark!    A rumble I hear
(Will the wind not be still?),
And it comes down the hill,
And it grows on the ear,
And now it is near.

Quick, a fresh log to burn!
Run and open the door,
Hold a lam...

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?

The city once again doth wear
    Her wonted dress of winter's bride,
Her mantle woven of misty air,
    With saffron sunlight faintly dyed.
She sits above the seething tide,
    Of all her summer robes forlorn--
And dead is all her summer pride--
    The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.

All round, the landscape stretches bare,
    The bleak fields lying far and wide,
Monotonous, with here and there
    A lone tree on a lone hillside.
No more the land is glorified
    With golden gleams of ripening corn,
Scarce is a cheerful hue descried--
    The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.

For me, I do not greatly care
    Though leaves be dead, and mists abide.
To me the place is thrice as fair
    In winter as in summer-tide:
With k...

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.

When one who has wandered out of the way
    Which leads to the hills of joy,
Whose heart has grown both cold and grey,
    Though it be but the heart of a boy--
When such a one turns back his feet
    From the valley of shadow and pain,
Is not the sunshine passing sweet,
    When a man grows young again?

How gladly he mounts up the steep hillside,
    With strength that is born anew,
And in his veins, like a full springtide,
    The blood streams through and through.
And far above is the summit clear,
    And his heart to be there is fain,
And all too slowly it comes more near
    When a man grows young again.

He breathes the pure sweet mountain breath,
    And it widens all his heart,
And life seems no more kin to death,
    Nor de...