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Francis Brabazon
1907-1984
The wordsmith has died, |
gone to the silence he loved — |
there where his words |
could not take him. |
He said to me once that poetry |
should exalt the Beloved, |
that the business of the poet |
is to sing God's glory, |
to reflect, however little, |
the sonority of silence. |
I think of him then, the singer |
short and intense, a lover |
grafted to clarity's fire. |
His pen was a voice singing |
of life's shadow play |
veiling the Beloved's light, |
and of the job of the lover |
to fashion his heart as a chalice, |
wherein he might consume himself |
utterly in burning. |
Now he, the Hafiz of our times, |
still has not ended his passionate |
poems to the sweetness of Meher; |
he remains in the world as a song, |
as the essence of dust he is singing |
— Robert Dreyfus |
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