Frederick Victor Branford Poems

I laboured on the anvil of my brain
And beat a metal out of pageantry.
Figure and form I carry in my train
To load the scaffolds of Eternity.
...

Aloft on footless levels of the night
A pilot thunders through the desolate stars,
Sees in the misty deep a fainting light
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Who in the splendour of a simple thought,
Whether for England or her enemies,
Went in the night, and in the morning died;
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The hearts of the mountains were void,
The sea spake foreign tongues,
From the speed of the wind I gat me no breath,
...