Assassins

Assassins find accomplices. Man's merit
Has found him three, the hawk, the hound, the ferret.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Love In The Summer Hills

Love in the summer hills,
With youth to mock at ills,
And kisses sweet to cheat
Our idle tears away.
What else has Time in store,
Till Life shall close the door?
Still let me sing love's lore,
Come sorrow when it may.

Rain on the weeping hills,
With Death to end our ills,
And only thought unsought
To point our joys' decay.
Oh Life is wounded sore
And Grief's mad waters roar.
Yet will I love once more
To--day as yesterday.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Jacinths And Jessamines

Jacinths and jessamines and jonquils sweet,
All odorous pale flowers from Orient lands,
No vain red roses strew I at thy feet,
Emblems of grief and thee, with reverent hands.
Mine is no madrigal of passionate joy,
Or orison of aught less chaste than tears.
Ruth on thy brow sits fairest. Its annoy
Rends not thy beauty's raiment, nor the years.
In thy shut lips what secrets! Who am I
Should seek a sign at that dread sanctuary?

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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A Nocturne

The Moon has gone to her rest,
A full hour ago.
The Pleiads have found a nest
In the waves below.
Slow, the Hours one by one
In Midnight's footsteps creep.
Lovers who lie alone
Soon wake to weep.
Slow--footed tortoise Hours, will ye not hasten on,
Till from his prison
In the golden East
A new day shall have risen,
And the last stars be gone,
Like guests belated from a bridal feast?
When the long night is done
Then shall ye sleep.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Good-Bye

Fools! must we ever quarrel with our fate,
Too late
Reading the worth of what we did despise,
And wise
At the journey's end to weep it scarce begun
When done?

No more! 'Tis ever the same story told
As of old.
Children, we used to wish our childhood past:
At last
It ended, as this journey ends, and we
Are free.

Shall we lament? It were an idle tale
To wail.
Can we be wise? Oh wisdom comes too late,
And fate
Answers our wicked prayer for liberty:
``Good--bye.''

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Une Feuille Morte

Je rêve debout devant la porte
Qui vient de se fermer sur moi.
Je colle mes yeux en triste sorte
Sur ce carré de sombre bois.
Je tourne entre mes deux doigts
Une fleur, une petite fleur; qu'importe?
Elle était bien bleue autrefois.
Ce n'est plus qu'une feuille morte.
Pauvre fleur, la douleur t'enlaidit
Les pétales mornes et pendues.
Tu sens mauvais, tu noircis.
Hélas fidèle, que fais--tu?
Mourir! C'est vite prendre ton parti!
Et moi donc, qui ai tant perdu?

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Red, Red Gold

Red, red gold, a kingdom's ransom, child,
To weave thy yellow hair she bade them spin.
At early dawn the gossamer spiders toiled,
And wove the sunrise in.

She took the treasures of the deep blue noon,
She took the clear eyes of the morning star,
The pale--faced lilies of a seven--days moon,
The dust of Phoebus' car.

She painted thee with dewdrops from the flowers,
Stained with their petals, hyacinth and rose,
And violets all wet with April showers
And snowdrops from the snows.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Oh For A Day Of Spring

Oh for a day of Spring,
A day of flowers and folly,
Of birds that pipe and sing
And boyhood's melancholy!
I would not grudge the laughter,
The tears that followed after.

Oh for a day of youth,
A day of strength and passion,
Of words that told the truth
And deeds the truth would fashion!
I would not leave untasted
One glory while it lasted.

Oh for a day of days,
A day with you and pleasure,
Of love in all its ways
And life in all its measure!
Win me that day from sorrow,
And let me die to--morrow.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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If I Forget Thee

If I forget thee! How shall I forget thee?
Sword of the mighty! Prince and Lord of War!
Captive I bind me
To the spears that blind me,
Rage in my heart and love for evermore.

If I forget thee! How shall I forget thee?
Man the destroyer! Life that made mine move!
They that come after
Let them earn my laughter,
Ay, but my anger, never, nor my love.

If I forget thee! How should I forget thee?
One man there is no woman dares despise.
Hate him it may be,
Wound him if the way be,
Nay, but forget him? Not before she dies!

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Think No More Of Me

Think no more of me,
If we needs must part.
Mine was but a heart.
Think no more of me.
Think no more of me.
For Love's sake forget.
Love grows hard which cannot see,
It may wound us yet.

Think no more of me.
Love has had his day.
Now Love runs away.
Think no more of me.
Think no more of me.
If we loved or not
Hidden is 'twixt me and thee.
It were best forgot.

Think no more of me.
We shall need our tears

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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