Edward Burrough Brownlow Poems

There is a playwright older than the years,
Who maketh all men actors in his play,
And, though they know not what they do or say,
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The sonnet is a diamond flashing round
From every facet true rare coloured lights;
A gem of thought carved in poetic nights
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Vine tendrils drooping in the midday sun
Take me to Greece, ere Sappho sang those lays,
Whose echoes, falling down this length of days,
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