Wilfrid Scawen Blunt: Всі вірші поета

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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XI

I have it still, a book with pages sewn

Cross--wise in silk, and brimming with these flowers,

Treasures we gathered there, long sere and brown,

The ghosts of childhood's first undoubting hours,

Of childhood in the mountains ere the powers

Of wrong and pain had turned our joys to gall.

That summer stands to me a tower of towers,

To which my gladness clings in spite of all.

167

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XIII

And what strange sights have these threewindows seen,

Mid bonnes and children, in the Tuileries!

What flights of hero, Emperor and Queen,

Since first I looked down from them, one of these!

Here, with his Mornys and his Persignys,

Louis Napoleon, the Prince President,

Rode one December past us, on the breeze

Of his new glory, bloodstained and intent.

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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XL

Here therefore ends my sad soul's pilgrimage,

In tears for sin and half--redeemed desire.

She was unworthy her high martyr's rage,

Or to be wholly purified by fire.

O Rome, thy ways are narrow and aspire

Too straitly for the knees of this halt age,

And, with the multitude, her forces tire,

Even while she holds thee fast, her heritage.

154

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Convent Wothout God

A prison is a convent without God.

Poverty, Chastity, Obedience

Its precepts are. In this austere abode

None gather wealth of pleasure or of pence.

Woman's light wit, the heart's concupiscence

Are banished here. At the least warder's nod

Thy neck shall bend in mute subservience.

Nor yet for virtue--rather for the rod.

169

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Dream Of Good

To do some little good before I die;

To wake some echoes to a loftier theme;

To spend my life's last store of industry

On thoughts less vain than Youth's discordant dream;

To endow the world's grief with some counter--scheme

Of logical hope which through all time should lighten

The burden of men's sorrow and redeem

Their faces' paleness from the tears that whiten;

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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet VI

Away from sorrow! Yes, indeed, away!

Who said that care behind the horseman sits?

The train to Paris, as it flies to--day,

Whirls its bold rider clear of ague fits.

Who stops for sorrows? Who for his lost wits,

His vanished gold, his loves of yesterday,

His vexed ambitions? See, the landscape flits

Bright in his face, and fleeter far than they.

153

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XVI

Gods, what a moral! Yet in vain I jest.

The France which has been, and shall be again,

Is the most serious, and perhaps the best,

Of all the nations which have power with men.

France only of the nations has this plain

Thought in the world, to scorn hypocrisy,

And by this token she shall purge the stain

Of her sins yet, though these as scarlet be.

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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XIII

A second warning, nor unheeded. Yet

The thought appealed to me as no strange thing,

Pure though I was, that love impure had set

Its seal on that fair woman in her Spring.

Her broken beauty did not mar her grace

In form or spirit. Nay, it rather moved.

It seemed a natural thing for that gay face

It should have known and suffered and been loved.

149

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

The Love Sonnets Of Proteus Part IV: Vita Nova: XCIV

A YEAR AGO

A year ago I too was proud of May,

I too delighted in the blackbird's song.

When the sun shone my soul made holiday.

When the rain fell I felt it as a wrong.

Then for me too the world was fresh and young.

Oh what a miracle each bluebell was!

How my heart leaped in union with my tongue,

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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet II

How shall I ransom me? The world without,

Where once I lived in vain expense and noise,

Say, shall it welcome me in this last rout,

Back to its bosom of forgotten joys?

Sometimes I hear it whispering with strange voice,

Asking, ``Are we forever then cast out,

The things that helped thee once in thy annoys,

That thou despairest? Nay, away with doubt!

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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XIV

To--day there is no cloud upon thy face,

Paris, fair city of romance and doom!

Thy memories do not grieve thee, and no trace

Lives of their tears for us who after come.

All is forgotten--thy high martyrdom,

Thy rage, thy vows, thy vauntings, thy disgrace,

With those who died for thee to beat of drum,

And those who lived to see thee kingdomless.

155

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Day in Sussex

The dove did lend me wings. I fled away

From the loud world which long had troubled me.

Oh lightly did I flee when hoyden May

Threw her wild mantle on the hawthorn tree.

I left the dusty high road, and my way

Was through deep meadows, shut with copses fair.

A choir of thrushes poured its roundelay

From every hedge and every thicket there.

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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt