Thomas Edward Brown
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Thomas Edward Brown Poems
A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot--
The Man that hath great griefs I pity not; ’Tis something to be great In any wise, and hint the larger state, Though but in shadow of a shade, God wot!
WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast, And yields the golden keys, Then is it as if God caress'd Twin babes upon His knees--
SHE knelt upon her brother's grave, My little girl of six years old-- He used to be so good and brave, The sweetest lamb of all our fold;
When He appoints to meet thee, go thou forth— It matters not If south or north, Bleak waste or sunny plot.
High stretched upon the swinging yard, I gather in the sheet; But it is hard And stiff, and one cries haste.
I bended unto me a Bough
I bended unto me a bough of May, That I might see and smell: It bore it in a sort of way, It bore it very well.
I know ’tis but a loom of land, Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice, I know I cannot hear His voice Upon the shore, nor see Him stand;
To-night I saw three maidens on the beach, Dark-robed descending to the sea, So slow, so silent of all speech, And visible to me
O blackbird, what a boy you are! How you do go it! Blowing your bugle to that one sweet star - How you do blow it!
Expecting Him, my door was open wide: Then I looked round If any lack of service might be found, And saw Him at my side
Sweet breeze that sett'st the summer birds a swaying, Dear lambs amid the primrose meadows playing Let me not think!
TO live within a cave--it is most good; But, if God make a day, And some one come, and say, 'Lo! I have gather'd faggots in the wood!'
As I was carving images from clouds, And tinting them with soft ethereal dyes Pressed from the pulp of dreams, one comes, and cries:-- "Forbear!" and all my heaven with gloom enshrouds.
Comments about Thomas Edward Brown
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
The veriest school
Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not--
Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
'Tis very sure God walks in mine.