Irving Browne

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,
...

The Best Poem Of Irving Browne

At Shakespeare’s Grave

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

Your foolish-colored bust upon the wall,
With its preposterous expanse of brow,
Shall rival Humpty Dumpty’s famous fall,
And cheats no cultured Boston people now.

Steal deer, hold horses, act your third-rate parts,
Hoard money, booze, neglect Anne Hathaway,—
You can’t deceive us with your stolen arts;
Like many a worthier dog, you’ve had your day.

I have expresst your history in a cyfer,
I ’ve done your sum for all ensuing time,
I don’t know what you longer wish to lie for
Beneath these stones or in your doggerel rhyme.

Get up and flit, or plunge into the river,
Or walk the chancel with a ghostly squeak,
You were an ignorant and evil liver,
Who could not spell, nor write, nor read much Greek.

Tho’ you enslaved the ages by your spell,
And Fame has blown no reputation louder,
Your cake is dough, for I by sifting well
Have quite reduced your dust to Bacon-powder.

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