Thomas Edward Brown

We have not seen the sun for many days,
But now through East-wind haze
He makes a shift
To send a luminous drift,
To which, as to his full unclouded splendour,
The meek, contented earth makes glad surrender.
God bless the simple earth
That gave me birth!
God bless her that she looks so pleased,
The soul thai is diseased
With this world's sorrow,
Well, sir? ought to look?
Beyond, and yet beyond: not in this narrow nook of His creation
Will God make up His book.
The whole is one great scheme of compensation
The net result
Is all . . . I too have had my dream,
As from my nonage dedicate a meustgx
Of that great cult.
I saw Lord Love upon his galley pass
Westward from Cyprus; smooth as glass
The sea was all before him. He, as keleustgx

The shepherd calls,
How these great niountain walls
Re-echo! See his dog
Come limping from the bog!
How far he holds him
With that thin clamour! Scolds him?
Or cheers him, which?
Say both, most like. The pitch
Is steep, poor fellow!
And still that bellow;
Ya, ya!
Whoop ‘ tittivat
And Echo from her niche
Shrieks challenged. Shout,
O shepherd! flout
The irritable Echo till she raves
As man behaves,
So God apportions, doing what is best
For you, and for the rest.
As man behaves! You do not help me much,
Nay, sir, nor touch
The central point at all,
Retributive, mechanical,
I see it. But outside all this
I miss . . . I miss . . .
Sir, know you Death?
Permit me introduce
No? What’s the use?
The use! . . . ...

Just listen to the blackbird, what a note
The creature has! God bless his happy throat!
He is so absolutely glad
I fear he will go mad.
Look here! this very grit
I crush beneath my boot
His little foot
Trod crisp that day, That’s it! that’s it
O, what is there to say?
The little foot so warm and pink!
O, what is there to think?
His mother kissed it every night
When she put out the light, And where?
What is it now? a fascicle
Of crumbling bones
J ammed in with earth and stones.
You say that this is old,
A tale twice-told, Say what you will:
Old, new, I swear
That it is horrible,
Horrible, blackbird, howsoe’er
The Spring rejoice you with its budding bloom,
Yes, horrible, most horrible!
Though you should carol to the crack of do...

The heavens are very blue
Above the western hill;
The earth is very still,
I will draw near, and view
The spot
Where he is . . . not.
But O dear cliff, O big, good-natured giant,
I think some delicate dint must still remain
On your broad surface, from the strain
Of limbs so sweetly pliant.
Behold!
The lamb! the lamb! fallen from the very rock!
Cold! cold!
Dead! dead!
His little head
Rests on the very block
That Braddan trod,
Dear lambs! twin lambs of God!
Old cliff, such things
Might move some stubborn questionings,
But now I question not,
See, see! the waterfall
Is robed in rainbows, what!
Our lambs? My Braddan shall have charge
Of him, and lead him by the marge
Of some bright stream celestial.
Braddan shall b...

Ha! snow
Upon the crags!
How slow
The winter lags
Ha, little lamb upon the crags,
How fearlessly you go!
Take care
Up there,
You little woolly atom! On and on
He goes . . . ‘tis steep . . . Hillo!
My friend is gone,
Friend orthodoxo-logical,
He could not argue with a waterfall!
And here it is, my Aber . . . Stay!
I’ll cross
This way:
The moss
Upon these stones is dripping with the spray,
And now one turn, left hand,
And I shall stand
Before the very rock: not yet . . . not yet!
O let me think ! No, no ! I don’t forget
(Forget!) but this is sacred . . . peace, then, peace!
Release
From all dead things, that serve not to present
At my soul’s grate the lovely innocent.
He had heard some idle talk
Of how his f...

The stream is very sweet
To-day . . . Just see the swallow dart!
How fleet!
It sent a shiver to my heart.
If he had lived, you say,
Well, well, if he had lived, what then?
Some men
Will always argue, yes, I know . . . of course . .
The argument has force.
If he had lived, he might have changed,
From bad to worse?
Nay, my shrewd balance-setter,
Why not from good to better?
Why not to best? to joy
And splendour? O, my boy!
I did not want this argument in the least,
My soul had ceased
From doubt and questioning,
That swallow’s wing!
What a transcendent rush!
Hush! hush!
Or, if you talk, talk low:
For . . . do you know . . .
Just as the swallow dipt,
I felt as if a soft hand slipt
Its fingers into mine he’s near
He...