Life
What, comrade of a night,
No sooner meet than fight?
Before the word, the blow?
Well, be it so.
Yet think not Thou I yield,
Lost on a lonely field.
Lo! to my fainting breath,
My champion, Death!
More poems by Alice Brown
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Trilby
O living image of eternal youth!
Wrought with such large simplicity of truth
That, now the pattern’s made and on the shelf, … -
Candlemas
o hearken, all ye little weeds
That lie beneath the snow,
(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!) … -
Cloistered
Seal thou the window! Yea, shut out the light
And bar my door to all the airs of spring.
Yet in my cell, concealed from curious sight, … -
Sleep
withdraw thee, soul, from strife.
Enter thine unseen bark,
And sail across the dark, …