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Winter At St. Andrews Post by :uwin2 Category :Poems Author :Robert F. Murray Date :September 2011 Read :1492

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Winter At St. Andrews

The city once again doth wear
Her wonted dress of winter's bride,
Her mantle woven of misty air,
With saffron sunlight faintly dyed.
She sits above the seething tide,
Of all her summer robes forlorn--
And dead is all her summer pride--
The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.

All round, the landscape stretches bare,
The bleak fields lying far and wide,
Monotonous, with here and there
A lone tree on a lone hillside.
No more the land is glorified
With golden gleams of ripening corn,
Scarce is a cheerful hue descried--
The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.

For me, I do not greatly care
Though leaves be dead, and mists abide.
To me the place is thrice as fair
In winter as in summer-tide:
With kindlier memories allied
Of pleasure past and pain o'erworn.
What care I, though the earth may hide
The leaves from off Queen Mary's Thorn?

Thus I unto my friend replied,
When, on a chill late autumn morn,
He pointed to the tree, and cried,
'The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn!'

(The end)
Robert F. Murray's poem: Winter At St. Andrews

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Patriotism Patriotism

There was a time when it was counted high To be a patriot--whether by the zeal Of peaceful labour for the country's weal,Or by the courage in her cause to die:_For King and Country_ was a rallying cry That turned men's hearts to fire, their nerves to steel; Not to unheeding ears did it appeal,A pulpit formula, a platform lie.Only a fool will wantonly desireThat war should come, outpouring blood and fire, And bringing grief and hunger in her train.And yet, if there be found no other way,God send us war,

Moonlight North And South Moonlight North And South

Moonlight North And South
Love, we have heard together The North Sea sing his tune,And felt the wind's wild feather Brush past our cheeks at noon,And seen the cloudy weather Made wondrous with the moon.Where loveliness is rarest, 'Tis also prized the most:The moonlight shone her fairest Along that level coastWhere sands and dunes the barest, Of beauty seldom boast,Far from that bleak and rude land An exile I remainFixed in a fair and good land, A valley and a plainRich in fat fields and woodland, And