Robert F. Murray: His Poems with a Memoir Part 8

Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No gra.s.s so green beneath my feet, Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.

I stand with thee outside the door, The air not yet is close with heat, And far across the yellowing wheat The waves are breaking on the sh.o.r.e.

A lovely day! Yet many such, Each like to each, this month have pa.s.sed, And none did so supremely shine.

One thing they lacked: the perfect touch Of thee--and thou art come at last, And half this loveliness is thine.

WELCOME HOME

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 pa.s.sed!

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 lamp out before To light up the turn, And bring in the urn.

You are come, then, at last!

O my dear, is it you?

I can scarce think it true I am holding you fast, And sorrow is past.

AN INVITATION

Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly, And tell me that the visit which has suffered such belating Is to be a thing of now, and no more of by-and-by.

Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.

The sea is at its bluest, and the Spring is new creating The woods and dens we know of, and the fields rejoicing lie, And the air is soft as summer, and the hedge-birds all are mating.

The Links are full of larks' nests, and the larks possess the sky, Like a choir of happy spirits, melodiously debating, All is ready for your coming, dear Ritchie--yes, and I, Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.

FICKLE SUMMER

Fickle Summer's fled away, Shall we see her face again?

Hearken to the weeping rain, Never sunbeam greets the day.

More inconstant than the May, She cares nothing for our pain, Nor will hear the birds complain In their bowers that once were gay.

Summer, Summer, come once more, Drive the shadows from the field, All thy radiance round thee fling, Be our lady as of yore; Then the earth her fruits shall yield, Then the morning stars shall sing.

SORROW'S TREACHERY

I made a truce last night with Sorrow, The queen of tears, the foe of sleep, To keep her tents until the morrow, Nor send such dreams to make me weep.

Before the l.u.s.ty day was springing, Before the tired moon was set, I dreamed I heard my dead love singing, And when I woke my eyes were wet.

THE CROWN OF YEARS

Years grow and gather--each a gem l.u.s.trous with laughter and with tears, And cunning Time a crown of years Contrives for her who weareth them.

No chance can s.n.a.t.c.h this diadem, It trembles not with hopes or fears, It shines before the rose appears, And when the leaves forsake her stem.

Time sets his jewels one by one.

Then wherefore mourn the wreaths that lie In attic chambers of the past?

They withered ere the day was done.

This coronal will never die, Nor shall you lose it at the last.

HOPE DEFERRED

When the weary night is fled, And the morning sky is red, Then my heart doth rise and say, 'Surely she will come to-day.'

In the golden blaze of noon, 'Surely she is coming soon.'

In the twilight, 'Will she come?'

Then my heart with fear is dumb.

When the night wind in the trees Plays its mournful melodies, Then I know my trust is vain, And she will not come again.