Irving Browne Poems

DISMISS your apprehension, pseudo bard,
For no one wishes to disturb these stones,
Nor cares if here or in the outer yard
...

A BABY lying on his mother’s breast
Draws life from that sweet fount;
He takes his rest
And heaves deep sighs;
...

MY prow is tending toward the west,
Old voices growing faint, dear faces dim,
And all that I have loved the best
...

When I puff my cigarette,
Straight I see a Spanish girl,—
Mantilla, fan, coquettish curl,
Languid airs and dimpled face,
...