A Coincidence
Every critic in the town
Runs the minor poet down;
Every critic--don't you know it?
Is himself a minor poet.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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On An Edinburgh Advocate
In youth with diligence he toiled
A Roman nose to gain,
But though a decent pug was spoiled,
A pug it did remain.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Make-believes
When I was young and well and glad,
I used to play at being sad;
Now youth and health are fled away,
At being glad I sometimes play.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Make-believes
When I was young and well and glad,
I used to play at being sad;
Now youth and health are fled away,
At being glad I sometimes play.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Art's Discipline
Long since I came into the school of Art,
A child in works, but not a child in heart.
Slowly I learn, by her instruction mild,
To be in works a man, in heart a child.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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The True Liberal
The truest Liberal is he
Who sees the man in each degree,
Who merit in a churl can prize,
And baseness in an earl despise,
Yet censures baseness in a churl,
And dares find merit in an earl.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Triolet
After the melting of the snow
Divines depart and April comes;
Examinations nearer grow
After the melting of the snow;
The grinder wears a face of woe,
The waster smokes and twirls his thumbs;
After the melting of the snow
Divines depart and April comes.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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An Afterthought
You found my life, a poor lame bird
That had no heart to sing,
You would not speak the magic word
To give it voice and wing.
Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour,
I think, if you had known
How much my life was in your power,
It might have sung and flown.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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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?
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Nightfall
Let me sleep. The day is past,
And the folded shadows keep
Weary mortals safe and fast.
Let me sleep.
I am all too tired to weep
For the sunlight of the Past
Sunk within the drowning deep.
Treasured vanities I cast
In an unregarded heap.
Time has given rest at last.
Let me sleep.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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