Statio Secunda

Just listen to the blackbird, what a note
The creature has! God bless his happy throat!
He is so absolutely glad
I fear he will go mad.
Look here! this very grit
I crush beneath my boot
His little foot
Trod crisp that day, Thats it! thats it
O, what is there to say?
The little foot so warm and pink!
O, what is there to think?
His mother kissed it every night
When she put out the light, And where?
What is it now? a fascicle
Of crumbling bones
J ammed in with earth and stones.
You say that this is old,
A tale twice-told, Say what you will:
Old, new, I swear
That it is horrible,
Horrible, blackbird, howsoeer
The Spring rejoice you with its budding bloom,
Yes, horrible, most horrible!
Though you should carol to the crack of doom,
Poor blackbird! being so absolutely glad,
I hope he wont go mad.

Thomas Edward Brown

Thomas Edward Brown was a Manx poet, scholar, and teacher known primarily for his humorous and satirical dialect poems. Born on May 5, 1830, in the Isle of Man, Brown's poetry often depicted rural Manx life, blending humor with a keen eye for detail. He spent a significant part of his career as a teacher and headmaster in England, which influenced his literary work. Brown's best-known collection, 'Fo'c's'le Yarns,' published in 1881, cemented his reputation as a significant literary figure in Manx culture. He passed away on October 29, 1897.

Thomas Edward Brown

Dora

Thomas Edward Brown, Simple Poetry

An Oxford Idyll

Thomas Edward Brown, Simple Poetry

Pain

Thomas Edward Brown, Simple Poetry

Statio Quinta

Thomas Edward Brown, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Statio Tertia

The stream is very sweet
To-day . . . Just see the swallow dart!
How fleet!
It sent a shiver to my heart.
If he had lived, you say,
Well, well, if he had lived, what then?
Some men
Will always argue, yes, I know . . . of course . .
The argument has force.
If he had lived, he might have changed,
From bad to worse?
Nay, my shrewd balance-setter,
Why not from good to better?
Why not to best? to joy
And splendour? O, my boy!
I did not want this argument in the least,
My soul had ceased
From doubt and questioning,
That swallows wing!
What a transcendent rush!
Hush! hush!
Or, if you talk, talk low:
For . . . do you know . . .
Just as the swallow dipt,
I felt as if a soft hand slipt
Its fingers into mine hes near
He...

Thomas Edward Brown

To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring

(For Kenton)



An iron hand has stilled the throats
    That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee
And dammed the flood of silver notes
    That drenched the world in melody.
The blosmy apple boughs are yearning
For their wild choristers' returning,
    But no swift wings flash through the tree.

Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,
    Shall Silence take you in her net?
And shall Death quell that radiant song
    Whose echo thrills the meadow yet?
Burst the frail web about you clinging
And charm Death's cruel heart with singing
    Till with strange tears his eyes are wet.

The scented morning of the year
    Is old and stale now ye are gone.
No friendly songs the children hear
    Among the bushes on the lawn.
When ...

Alfred Joyce Kilmer

The Lover And Birds

Within a budding grove,
In April's ear sang every bird his best,
But not a song to pleasure my unrest,
Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;
Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.
To every word
Of every bird
I listen'd, and replied as it behove.

Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!
Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!'
'Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fear
Thy darling prove no better than a cheat,
And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'
Yet from a twig,
With voice so big,
The little fowl his utterance did repeat.

Then I, 'The man forlorn
Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.'
'And what'll he do? What'll he do?' scoff'd
The Blackbird, standing, in an ancient thorn,
Then spread his so...

William Allingham

Statio Quinta

The shepherd calls,
How these great niountain walls
Re-echo! See his dog
Come limping from the bog!
How far he holds him
With that thin clamour! Scolds him?
Or cheers him, which?
Say both, most like. The pitch
Is steep, poor fellow!
And still that bellow;
Ya, ya!
Whoop  tittivat
And Echo from her niche
Shrieks challenged. Shout,
O shepherd! flout
The irritable Echo till she raves
As man behaves,
So God apportions, doing what is best
For you, and for the rest.
As man behaves! You do not help me much,
Nay, sir, nor touch
The central point at all,
Retributive, mechanical,
I see it. But outside all this
I miss . . . I miss . . .
Sir, know you Death?
Permit me introduce
No? Whats the use?
The use! . . . ...

Thomas Edward Brown

The Blackbird

O blackbird! sing me something well:
While all the neighbors shoot thee round,
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground,
Where thou mayst warble, eat, and dwell.
The espaliers and the standards all
Are thine; the range of lawn and park;
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark,
All thine, against the garden wall.

Yet, tho I spared thee all the spring,
Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that gold dagger of thy bill
To fret the summer jenneting.

A golden bill! ths silver tongue,
Cold February loved, is dry;
Plenty corrupts the melody
That made thee famous once when young;

And in the sultry garden-squares,
Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse,
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse
As when a hawker hawks his wares.

Tak...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Matin-Song Of Friar Tuck

I.

If souls could sing to heaven's high King
    As blackbirds pipe on earth,
How those delicious courts would ring
    With gusts of lovely mirth!
What white-robed throng could lift a song
    So mellow with righteous glee
As this brown bird that all day long
    Delights my hawthorn tree.
        Hark! That's the thrush
            With speckled breast
        From yon white bush
            Chaunting his best,
    Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!


II.

If earthly dreams be touched with gleams
    Of Paradisal air,
Some wings, perchance, of earth may glance
    Around our slumbers there;
Some breaths of may might drift our way
    With scents of leaf and loam,
Some whistling bird at dawn be heard
    From ...

Alfred Noyes