James Logie Robertson Biography

In the grey skies the sun is growing cold,
And all the beauty of the air is gone;
The fays have left their bowers; the flowers alone
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Thou sluggard body, that must sit on shore
While sleepless Fancy ranges space at will—
Now shooting boldly o'er the billowy hoar
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O give me speech! companionship I ask
With my own kind: my soul is sick of books,
And longs with passionate longing for the looks
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O bright-eyed Hope, that still look'st back on me,
And beckon'st with thy hand, seeming to say—
“Leave caring for these baubles of To-Day;
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And slow and slower still, day after day,
Come the sad Hours, with beauteous upturned eyes
Gleaming with hopes I may not realise,
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