James Logie Robertson

James Logie Robertson Poems

In the grey skies the sun is growing cold,
And all the beauty of the air is gone;
The fays have left their bowers; the flowers alone
...

2.

Thou sluggard body, that must sit on shore
While sleepless Fancy ranges space at will—
Now shooting boldly o'er the billowy hoar
...

O give me speech! companionship I ask
With my own kind: my soul is sick of books,
And longs with passionate longing for the looks
...

4.

O bright-eyed Hope, that still look'st back on me,
And beckon'st with thy hand, seeming to say—
“Leave caring for these baubles of To-Day;
...

And slow and slower still, day after day,
Come the sad Hours, with beauteous upturned eyes
Gleaming with hopes I may not realise,
...

We stood on Morven ere the morning broke:
Night lingered on the hills; a single star
Sent tremulously down on Lochnagar
...

I saw once in my dreams a Dreamer sit
With half-shut eyes upon a bank of flowers
Bedropt with pearl and gold, the various dowers
...

James Logie Robertson Biography

James Logie Robertson (1846 – 1922) was a literary scholar, editor and author, who also wrote under the pen name Hugh Haliburton. He was born in Milnathort, Kinross-shire in 1846 and educated at Orwell Parish School and Edinburgh University. He began his teaching career as assistant master at Heriot’s Hospital and George Watson’s College. He joined the staff at Edinburgh Ladies’ College in 1876 and stayed there until 1913. His writings include English text-books, essays and poetry.)

The Best Poem Of James Logie Robertson

Change

In the grey skies the sun is growing cold,
And all the beauty of the air is gone;
The fays have left their bowers; the flowers alone—
Sweet summer things which never can grow old—
Are bright, but meaningless; the ring of gold
No longer crowns the kingcup, for the wealth
Of all the fields is ravished; and the stealth
Of lovers' glances into violets' eyes
For meanings which these eyes no longer hold
Is sadly unavailing. But, O change
Saddest of all! the hearts I wont to prize
As nearest to my own are cold and strange,
And I am strange to them; and, when we meet,
Our words are commonplace, and few, and fleet.

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