Irving Browne

  • Man's Pillow

    A baby lying on his mother’s breast
        Draws life from that sweet fount;
            He takes his rest
            And heaves deep sighs;
            With brooding eyes
            Of soft content
    She shelters him within that fragrant nest,
        And scarce...

  • 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,...

  • My New World

      my prow is tending toward the west,
    Old voices growing faint, dear faces dim,
      And all that I have loved the best
    Far back upon the waste of memory swim.
      My old world disappears:
      Few hopes and many fears
        Accompany me.

      But...