Nicholas Styant-Browne


February 14, 1958 (Southport, Queensland, Australia)  –  July 17, 2022 (Kirkland, WA)


image of Nicholas Styant-Browne

Nicholas Styant-Browne

Husband to Teresa, grandfather to Nicholas III, brother to Philippa, Tony and Mark,  son to Geoff and Betty—Nicholas played every role in his life well, but father to his six children, Nicky, Mia, Georgia, Holly, Sophie and Zac was the position he held most dear. 

A natural charmer, he used his innate charisma to win over everyone from his wife to his hospice nurses. 

When he wasn’t whipping up a brisket, or another gourmet meal with Teresa in the kitchen, he was puffing on a cigar in the backyard, head buried in a book or regaling whatever audience he had with dramatic tales of his childhood and young adulthood in his home country of Australia. 

A graduate of Melbourne Law School, he first practiced law in Australia before moving to Seattle with his family in 2001 where he specialized in class actions. His Australian accent somehow only thickened after moving across the Pacific. 

He adored all animals, but worshipped his own dogs, Bruce and Zeke, both of whom stuck close to his bedside in the last weeks of his life. 

He lived for live music and went to shows regularly, usually arriving on the back of his most cherished possession—a Harley Davidson. 

Nicholas leaves behind shoes too big to be filled and a void where the sound of his laughter once rang.

One Response to “Nicholas Styant-Browne”

  • Teresa says:

    La Belle Dame Sans Merci- John Keats

    Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
    Alone and palely loitering;
    The sedge is withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

    Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
    So haggard and so woe-begone?
    The squirrel’s granary is full,
    And the harvest’s done.

    I see a lilly on thy brow,
    With anguish moist and fever dew;
    And on thy cheek a fading rose
    Fast withereth too.

    I met a lady in the meads
    Full beautiful, a faery’s child;
    Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    And her eyes were wild.

    I set her on my pacing steed,
    And nothing else saw all day long;
    For sideways would she lean, and sing
    A faery’s song.

    I made a garland for her head,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
    She looked at me as she did love,
    And made sweet moan.

    She found me roots of relish sweet,
    And honey wild, and manna dew;
    And sure in language strange she said,
    I love thee true.

    She took me to her elfin grot,
    And there she gazed and sighed deep,
    And there I shut her wild sad eyes—
    So kissed to sleep.

    And there we slumbered on the moss,
    And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
    The latest dream I ever dreamed
    On the cold hill side.

    I saw pale kings, and princes too,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
    Who cried—”La belle Dame sans merci
    Hath thee in thrall!”

    I saw their starved lips in the gloam
    With horrid warning gaped wide,
    And I awoke, and found me here
    On the cold hill side.

    And this is why I sojourn here
    Alone and palely loitering,
    Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

    I love you, Nicholas

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