Brian Strand
That English man with an English tongue
Abbreviating the world into song
Nothing he wrote was ever long
And yet to every piece the sense clung
Making English days and place
As close as home to us, the student
Of form and letters, and art still argent
Used words naked without the lace
Of liquid emotions, he would tell
In tones of heaven the truth of hell.
He is my brother still beyond verse
And sweet the days when we converse
Of Byron, Keats, or Wordsworth
And felt the rich embrace of earth.
Always did I pray his pen write still
And that his English fire never chill.
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