Robert Fuller Murray Poems

Till the tread of marching feet
Through the quiet grass-grown street
Of the little town shall come,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.
...

It is the Police Commissioners,
All on a winter's day;
And they to prove the town water
Have set themselves away.
...

Fickle Summer's fled away,
Shall we see her face again?
Hearken to the weeping rain,
Never sunbeam greets the day.
...

Another day let slip! Its hours have run,
Its golden hours, with prodigal excess,
All run to waste. A day of life the less;
Of many wasted days, alas, but one!
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It seems a little word to say -
FAREWELL--but may it not, when said,
Be like the kiss we give the dead,
Before they pass the doors for aye?
...

So in the village inn the poet dwelt.
His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch,
His cousin's work, her empty labour, left.
But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung
...

Early on Christmas Day,
Love, as awake I lay,
And heard the Christmas bells ring sweet and clearly,
My heart stole through the gloom
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You like the trifling triolet:
Well, here are three or four.
Unless your likings I forget,
You like the trifling triolet.
...

How often have the critics, trained
To look upon the sky
Through telescopes securely chained,
Forgot the naked eye.
...