Robert F. Murray: His Poems with a Memoir Part 13

No gift I bring but wors.h.i.+p, and the love Which all must bear to lovely souls and pure, Those lights, that, when all else is dark, endure; Stars in the night, to lift our eyes above;

To lift our eyes and hearts, and make us move Less doubtful, though our journey be obscure, Less fearful of its ending, being sure That they watch over us, where'er we rove.

And though my gift itself have little worth, Yet worth it gains from her to whom 'tis given, As a weak flower gets colour from the sun.

Or rather, as when angels walk the earth, All things they look on take the look of heaven-- For of those blessed angels thou art one.

CYCLAMEN

I had a plant which would not thrive, Although I watered it with care, I could not save the blossoms fair, Nor even keep the leaves alive.

I strove till it was vain to strive.

I gave it light, I gave it air, I sought from skill and counsel rare The means to make it yet survive.

A lady sent it me, to prove She held my friends.h.i.+p in esteem; I would not have it as she said, I wanted it to be for love; And now not even friends we seem, And now the cyclamen is dead.

LOVE RECALLED IN SLEEP

There was a time when in your face There dwelt such power, and in your smile I know not what of magic grace; They held me captive for a while.

Ah, then I listened for your voice!

Like music every word did fall, Making the hearts of men rejoice, And mine rejoiced the most of all.

At sight of you, my soul took flame.

But now, alas! the spell is fled.

Is it that you are not the same, Or only that my love is dead?

I know not--but last night I dreamed That you were walking by my side, And sweet, as once you were, you seemed, And all my heart was glorified.

Your head against my shoulder lay, And round your waist my arm was pressed, And as we walked a well-known way, Love was between us both confessed.

But when with dawn I woke from sleep, And slow came back the unlovely truth, I wept, as an old man might weep For the lost paradise of youth.

FOOTSTEPS IN THE STREET

Oh, will the footsteps never be done?

The insolent feet Thronging the street, Forsaken now of the only one.

The only one out of all the throng, Whose footfall I knew, And could tell it so true, That I leapt to see as she pa.s.sed along,

As she pa.s.sed along with her beautiful face, Which knew full well Though it did not tell, That I was there in the window-s.p.a.ce.

Now my sense is never so clear.

It cheats my heart, Making me start A thousand times, when she is not near.

When she is not near, but so far away, I could not come To the place of her home, Though I travelled and sought for a month and a day.

Do you wonder then if I wish the street Were grown with gra.s.s, And no foot might pa.s.s Till she treads it again with her sacred feet?

FOR A PRESENT OF ROSES

Crimson and cream and white-- My room is a garden of roses!

Centre and left and right, Three several splendid posies.

As the sender is, they are sweet, These lovely gifts of your sending, With the stifling summer heat Their delicate fragrance blending.

What more can my heart desire?

Has it lost the power to be grateful?

Is it only a burnt-out fire, Whose ashes are dull and hateful?

Yet still to itself it doth say, 'I should have loved far better To have found, coming in to-day, The merest sc.r.a.p of a letter.'

IN TIME OF SORROW

Despair is in the suns that s.h.i.+ne, And in the rains that fall, This sad forsaken soul of mine Is weary of them all.

They fall and s.h.i.+ne on alien streets From those I love and know.

I cannot hear amid the heats The North Sea's freshening flow

The people hurry up and down, Like ghosts that cannot lie; And wandering through the phantom town The weariest ghost am I.

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE--FROM VICTOR HUGO

If a pleasant lawn there grow By the showers caressed, Where in all the seasons blow Flowers gaily dressed, Where by handfuls one may win Lilies, woodbine, jessamine, I will make a path therein For thy feet to rest.