Robert F. Murray: His Poems with a Memoir Part 6

The night being fine, it was not worth while.

We strayed through furrow and corn and gra.s.s We met with many a fence and stile, And a quickset hedge, which we failed to pa.s.s.

At last we came on a road she knew; She said we were near her father's place.

I heard the steps of the other two, And my heart stood still for a moment's s.p.a.ce.

Then I pleaded, 'Give me a good-night kiss.'

I have learned, but I did not know in time, The fruits that hang on the tree of bliss Are not for cravens who will not climb.

We met all four by the farmyard gate, We parted laughing, with half a sigh, And home we went, at a quicker rate, A shorter journey, my friend and I.

When we reached the house, it was late enough, And many impertinent things were said, Of time and distance, and such dull stuff, But we said little, and went to bed.

We went to bed, but one at least Went not to sleep till the black turned grey, And the sun rose up, and the light increased, And the birds awoke to a summer day.

And sometimes now, when the nights are mild, And the moon is away, and no stars s.h.i.+ne, I wander out, and I go half-wild, To think of the kiss which was not mine.

Let great minds laugh at a grief so small, Let small minds laugh at a fool so great.

Kind maidens, pity me, one and all.

Shy youths, take warning by this my fate.

THE CAGED THRUSH

Alas for the bird who was born to sing!

They have made him a cage; they have clipped his wing; They have shut him up in a dingy street, And they praise his singing and call it sweet.

But his heart and his song are saddened and filled With the woods, and the nest he never will build, And the wild young dawn coming into the tree, And the mate that never his mate will be.

And day by day, when his notes are heard They freshen the street--but alas for the bird

MIDNIGHT

The air is dark and fragrant With memories of a shower, And sanctified with stillness By this most holy hour.

The leaves forget to whisper Of soft and secret things, And every bird is silent, With folded eyes and wings.

O blessed hour of midnight, Of sleep and of release, Thou yieldest to the toiler The wages of thy peace.

And I, who have not laboured, Nor borne the heat of noon, Receive thy tranquil quiet-- An undeserved boon.

Yes, truly G.o.d is gracious, Who makes His sun to s.h.i.+ne Upon the good and evil, And idle lives like mine.

Upon the just and unjust He sends His rain to fall, And gives this hour of blessing Freely alike to all.

WHERE'S THE USE

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?

A MAY-DAY MADRIGAL

The sun s.h.i.+nes fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright, Your heart is full of pleasure, your eyes are full of light, Your cheeks are like the morning, your pearls are like the dew, Or morning and her dew-drops are like your pearls and you.

Because you are a princess, a princess of the land, You will not turn your lightsome eyes a moment where I stand, A poor unnoticed poet, a-making of his rhymes; But I have found a mistress, more fair a thousand times.

'Tis May, the elfish maiden, the daughter of the Spring, Upon whose birthday morning the birds delight to sing.

They would not sing one note for you, if you should so command, Although you are a princess, a princess of the land.

SONG IS NOT DEAD

Song is not dead, although to-day Men tell us everything is said.

There yet is something left to say, Song is not dead.

While still the evening sky is red, While still the morning gold and grey, While still the autumn leaves are shed,

While still the heart of youth is gay, And honour crowns the h.o.a.ry head, While men and women love and pray Song is not dead.

A SONG OF TRUCE

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

While the banners idly hang, While the bugles do not clang, While is hushed the clamorous drum, Soldier, rest awhile at home.

In the breathing-time of Death, While the sword is in its sheath, While the cannon's mouth is dumb, Soldier, rest awhile at home.

Not too long the rest shall be.