Wilfrid Scawen Blunt: Все стихи поэта

Все стихи Оригиналы Переводы

« ‹ 1 2 3 4 5 › »

Written At Florence

O WORLD, in very truth thou art too young;

When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age?

World, with thy covering of yellow flowers,

Hast thou forgot what generations sprung

Out of thy loins and loved thee and are gone?

Hast thou no place in all their heritage

Where thou dost only weep, that I may come

Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers?

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Lesson In Humility

'Tis time, my soul, thou shouldst be purged of pride.

What men are these with thee, whose ill deeds done

Make thee thus shrink from them and be denied?

They are but as thou art, each mother's son

A convict in transgression. Here is one,

Sayest thou, who struck his fellow and he died.

And yet he weeps hot tears. Do thy tears run?

This other thieved, yet clasps Christ crucified.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet VII

Ah, Paris, Paris! What an echo rings

Still in those syllables of vain delight!

What voice of what dead pleasures on what wings

Of Maenad laughters pulsing through the night!

How bravely her streets smile on me! How bright

Her shops, her houses, fair sepulchral things,

Stored with the sins of men forgotten quite,

The loves of mountebanks, the lusts of kings!

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Ballad Of The Heather

We spent a day together,

One day of all our lives,

Of love in cloudless weather--

Such only youth contrives--

One day in the red heather,

Alone with our two lives.

The tall grey rocks were near us,

The birch--trees lent us shade,

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Cuckoo Song

Crowns are for kings to wear, sad crowns of gold

Over tired heads that ache, world--cares untold.

Not on thy happy brows, sweet bird of summer,

Set we such crowns to--day, thou Spring's new--comer.

Take from us, rather, thou these our wild posies.

April's and May's we bring, June's with its roses.

Nay and love's Cuckoo flowers, O child of glory!

Cuckoos thine own birds are; these be thy dowry.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

With Esther

HE who has once been happy is for aye

Out of destruction's reach. His fortune then

Holds nothing secret; and Eternity,

Which is a mystery to other men,

Has like a woman given him its joy.

Time is his conquest. Life, if it should fret.

Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die,

He who has once been happy! When I set

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Day In The Castle Of Envy

The castle walls are full of eyes,

And not a mouse may creep unseen.

All the window slits are spies;

And the towers stand sentinel

High above the gardens green.

Not a lizard lurking close

In the brambles of the dell;

Not a beetle as he goes,

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Laughter And Death

THERE is no laughter in the natural world

Of beast or fish or bird, though no sad doubt

Of their futurity to them unfurled

Has dared to check the mirth-compelling shout.

The lion roars his solemn thunder out

To the sleeping woods. The eagle screams her cry.

Even the lark must strain a serious throat

To hurl his blest defiance at the sky.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A Love Secret

Love has its secrets, joy has its revealings.

How shall I speak of that which love has hid?

If my beloved shall return to greet me,

Deeds shall be done for her none ever did.

My beloved loved me. How shall I reveal it?

We were alone that morning in the street.

She looked down at the ground, and blushed, and trembled.

She stopped me with her eyes when these did meet.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

On Her Lightheartedness

I WOULD I had thy courage, dear, to face

This bankruptcy of love, and greet despair

With smiling eyes and unconcerned embrace,

And these few words of banter at “dull care.”

I would that I could sing and comb my hair

Like thee the morning through, and choose my dress,

And gravely argue what I best should wear,

A shade of ribbon or a fold of lace.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: I

When is life other than a tragedy,

Whether it is played in tears from the first scene,

In sable robes and grief's mute pageantry,

For loves that died ere they had ever been,

Or whether on the edge of joys set keen,

While all the stage with laughter is agog,

Death stepping forward with an altered mien

Pulls off his mask, and speaks the epilogue?

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

The Wind And The Whirlwind

I have a thing to say. But how to say it?

I have a cause to plead. But to what ears?

How shall I move a world by lamentation,

A world which heeded not a Nation's tears?

How shall I speak of justice to the aggressors,

Of right to Kings whose rights include all wrong,

Of truth to Statecraft, true but in deceiving,

Of peace to Prelates, pity to the Strong?

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt