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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.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

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.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Satan Absolved

(In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groups conversing.)

Satan. To--day is the Lord's ``day.'' Once more on His good pleasure

I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure

Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of God.

How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood,

Its old--world furniture, its linen long in press,

Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!

Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet V

The physical world itself is a fair thing

For who has eyes to see or ears to hear.

To--day I fled on my new freedom's wind,

With the first swallows of the parting year,

Southwards from England. At the Folkestone pier

I left the burden of my sins behind,

Noting how gay the noon was, and how clear

The tide's fresh laughter rising to no wind.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Glory Gone

What is my thought of you, beloved one,

Now you have passed from me and gone your ways?

Glory is gone with you from stars and sun,

And all wise meaning from the nights and days.

There is no colour, no delight, no praise

In the deep forest, where your dear eyes shone,

Nor any dryad face with cheeks ablaze

To paint the glades grown sere as Avalon.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

St Valentine's Day

TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,

With hounds and horsemen, a brave company

On this side in its glory lay the sea,

On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.

The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,

And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse:

And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse

Prick'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Digit Of The Moon

This book is written for Man's ultimate need,

A creed of joy sent down to the aged Earth

From days of happier daring and more mirth

To comfort and console all hearts that bleed.

Here shall ye find how Love, that mastering weed

Of tropic growth and paradisal power,

Sprang in a night and found its fortunate hour

And was fulfilled of glory, flower, fruit, seed,

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Twenty Days

Twenty days are barely gone,

I was merry all the day.

Folly was my butt of scorn.

Now the fool myself I play.

Wit and learning ruled my head,

Logic and economy.

All the books I ever read

Taught me only vanity.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Chaunt In Praise

How many hymns have I chaunted, Lady, in laud of thee,

Each with a sigh for its burthen, tear for its antiphon?

Love--songs are sweet in the morning. All things in praise of thee

Evening and morning rejoice, intoning in unison.

Noontide and night have I heard them, birds in the bulrushes,

Ewes with their lambs in the pastures, winds in the wilderness,

Doves as they light in the palm--tops, moans of the waterwheel,

Eagles and ravens exulting, all speak the name of thee.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet I

Care killed a cat, and I have cares at home,

Which vex me nightly and disturb my bed.

The things I love have all grown wearisome;

The things that loved me are estranged or dead.

I have a house most fair, but tenanted

With shadows only, gardens of tall trees,

Fenced in and made secure from every dread

But this one terror, my soul's lack of ease.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: III

A little honey! Ay, a little sweet,

A little pleasure when the years were young,

A joyous measure trod by dancing feet,

A tale of folly told by a loved tongue.

These are the things by which our hearts are wrung

More than by tears. Oh, I would rather laugh,

So I had not to choose such tales among

Which was most laughable. Man's nobler half

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Dream

I dreamed

A dream of you,

Not as you seemed

When you were late unkind

And blind

To my eyes' pleading for a debt long due,

But touched and true

And all inclined

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt