Wilfrid Scawen Blunt: Все стихи поэта

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Oh! leave the past to buy its own dead.

The past is naught to us, the present all.

What need of last year's leaves to strew Love's bed?

What need of ghosts to grace a festival?

I would not, if I could, those days recall,

Those days not ours. For us the feast is spread.

The lamps are lit, and music plays withal.

Then let us love and leave the rest unsaid.

I do not care for kisses. "Tis a debt

We paid for the first privilege of love.

These are the rains of April which have wet

Our fallow hearts and forced their germs to move.

Now the green corn has sprouted. Each new day

Brings better pleasures, a more dear surprise,

The blade, the ear, the harvest--and our way

Leads through a region wealthy grown and wise.