Wilfrid Scawen Blunt: Все стихи поэта

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Butterflies

O child of Joy! What idle life is thine!

Thou, in these meadows, while thy skies are blue,

And while thy joys are new to thee like wine,

Chasest mad butterflies as children do.

And lo, thou turnest from them to repine,

Because it was not love thou didst pursue.

O child of Hope! Thou sighest thy sad sighs,

Mourning for that which is not nor can be.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

"Sed Nos Qui Vivimus"

How beautiful is life--the physical joy of sense and breathing;

The glory of the world which has found speech and speaks to us;

The robe which summer throws in June round the white bones of winter;

The new birth of each day, itself a life, a world, a sun!

I love all things that are young and happy and eternal,

Eternal in their change and growth as I too changing grow.

Old am I, and how many voices that I loved are heard not!

Yet the world lives, and in its life I live and laugh and love.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Written At Sea

What is my quarrel with thee, beautiful sea,

That thus I cannot love thy waves or thee,

Or hear thy voice but it tormenteth me?

Why do I hate thee, who art beautiful

Beyond all beauty, when the nights are cool,

And the stars fade because the moon is full?

Why do I hate thee? Thou art new and young,

And life is thine for loving, and thy tongue

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Three Pictures

I have seen many things in many lands,

And many sorrows known and many joys,

And clutched at pleasure's cup with lawless hands,

And drunk my fill of mirth and lust and noise,

Nor spared to make of human hearts my toys,

But fed with life the brute strength of my pride,

As with a tribute of fair living boys

The monstrous lord of Crete him satisfied.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Song

O FLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure;

Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay:

For my heart no measure

Knows, nor other treasure

To buy a garland for my love to-day.

And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow,

Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away:

For I fain would borrow

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

To Manon, Comparing Her To A Falcon

BRAVE as a falcon and as merciless,

With bright eyes watching still the world, thy prey,

I saw thee pass in thy lone majesty,

Untamed, unmated, high above the press.

The dull crowd gazed at thee. It could not guess

The secret of thy proud aerial way,

Or read in thy mute face the soul which lay

A prisoner there in chains of tenderness.

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

The Old Squire

I LIKE the hunting of the hare

Better than that of the fox;

I like the joyous morning air,

And the crowing of the cocks.

I like the calm of the early fields,

The ducks asleep by the lake,

The quiet hour which Nature yields

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Gibraltar

SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm

Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more

We ride into still water and the calm

Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either shore

Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er,

Our exile is accomplish'd. Once again

We look on Europe, mistress as of yore

Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

To Manon, On His Fortune In Loving Her

I DID not choose thee, dearest. It was Love

That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind

As a rude shepherd's who to some lone grove

His offering brings and cares not at what shrine

He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine;

The rest was Love's. He took me by the hand,

And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine,

And spoke the words I might not understand.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

The Two Highwaymen

I LONG have had a quarrel set with Time

Because he robb'd me. Every day of life

Was wrested from me after bitter strife:

I never yet could see the sun go down

But I was angry in my heart, nor hear

The leaves fall in the wind without a tear

Over the dying summer. I have known

No truce with Time nor Time's accomplice, Death.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

The Desolate City

DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens.

Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars?

Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city.

A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.

Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters,

Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love.

Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen'd to their chaunting;

Each one sang to his love; only I was alone.

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt