Maurice Browne Poems

No wild-foot Dryad haunts this leafless glade
With woodland lures, old weird lures chanted long;
No nightingale thrills dusk's embalméd shade
With all her incommunicable song,
...

Be still, she sleeps. Yea, there is stillness here:
No voices come to rouse the dreamless dead,
No new grief gathers with the gathering year,
No woman's heart bleeds now where once it bled,
...

Rank growth of grass, and columns overthrown,
Black pools of rain, and icy storm-swept heights
Titanic fragments of hewn stone,
...

Summer in England, winter in my heart:
So England, England, all I love thou art,
And thou and I are half a world apart!
...

Thou that of twilight art fashioned,
Starlight and moonlight and mist,
Soul the high gods have impassioned,
Brow that the pale night hath kissed
...

Her footsteps fall in silent sands;
Her hands are cool like growing leaves;
The fingers of her hovering hands
...