The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. May
THE LONDON SEASON
I still love London in the month of May,
By an old habit, spite of dust and din.
I love the fair adulterous world, whose way
Is by the pleasant banks of Serpentine.
I love the worshippers at fashion's shrine,
The flowers, the incense, and the pageantry
Of generations which still ask a sign
Of that dear god, whose votary am I.
I love the ``greetings in the market--place,''
The jargon of the clubs. I love to view
The ``gilded youth'' who at the window pass,
For ever smiling smiles for ever new.
I love these men and women at their task
Of hunting pleasure. Hope, mysterious too,
Touches my arm and points, and seems to ask
``And you, have you no Juliet in the masque?''
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Love Is Master Still
Since that it may not be,
The thing my soul desires,
And that Love's tenderer fires
Are doomed to loss and Time's sterility,
Ours be it this one day
Flowers at Love's feet to lay,
For Love is master still, or be we bond or free.
We may not quite be blest.
Time's treasure is too great,
And ours too weak a fate,
And Joy burns low, a sun--flame in the West.
Night comes, the while we stand
Forlornly hand in hand,
And then the tears begin, the dreams that have no rest.
Yet, since it may not be,
And Love can not be wise,
And in each other's eyes
We still must seek Time's lost felicity,
[...] Read more
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. April
TROUT--FISHING
This morning, through my window, half awake,
I felt the south wind blow; and presently,
With a tumultuous thrill and then a shake,
The nightingale broke forth in melody.
I rose in haste, and looked at the grey sky,
And read an omen. From its corner next
A book I drew, blest book, where fly on fly
Are all the letters of its well--thumbed text.
I chose my cast, a march--brown and a dun,
And ran down to the river, chasing hope.
At the first throw a mighty trout was on,
A very Samson, fit to burst a rope,
Yet tamed by one sad hank of yielding hair
And Fate, the fisherman of King and Pope.
Upon the grass he lies, and gasps the air,
Four silver pounds, sublimely fat and fair.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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At The Parting Of The Ways
Here our roads part. Go thou by thy green valley,
Thy youth before thee and the river Nile.
My path lies o'er the desert, and my galley
Has rougher seas to plough (and days) the while.
I know not what to offer you: a smile,
A blessing, a farewell? I dare not dally
Even with the thought of tears. 'Twas but a mile
We walked together, and such things were folly.
I will not hope, who have no faith in fate,
That I shall you remember or you me
Beyond to--morrow. Yet, perhaps the wind
Blowing some morning through its Eastern gate
May tell you of my fortune; and behind
The Western star some evening I may see,
As in a vision of far days more kind,
Your dear eyes watching while the night grows blind.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. July
GOODWOOD
To the high breezes of the Goodwood Down
London has fled, and there awhile forgets
Its weariness of limb on lawns new--mown
And in green shadows all its wars and frets.
Thither we too will bring our calumets
In sign of peace restored o'er fashion slain,
Weaning our souls from folly with small bets
Of gloves and crowns with laughing ringwomen.
The sport is fair, luck fair, and Nature's face
Fairest of all. We neither make nor mar
A fortune here. Yet we were rich with less
Than this week's pleasure conquered from the year.
I would not for a million not have seen
Fred Archer finish upon Guinevere.
Hark! They are off again, a half mile spin,
Four of the dozen backed and bound to win.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. June
A DAY AT HAMPTON COURT
It is our custom, once in every year,
Mine and two others', when the chestnut trees
Are white at Bushey, Ascot being near,
To drive to Hampton Court, and there, at ease
In that most fair of English palaces,
Spend a long summer's day. What better cheer
Than the old ``Greyhound's,'' seek it where you please?
And where a royal garden statelier?
The morning goes in tennis, a four set,
With George the marker. 'Tis a game for gods,
Full of return and volley at the net,
And laughter and mirth--making episodes
Not wholly classic. But the afternoon
Finds us punt--fishing idly with our rods,
Nodding and half in dreams, till all too soon
Darkness and dinner drive us back to town.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. December
AWAY TO EGYPT
Enough, enough! This winter is too rude,
Too dark of countenance, of tooth too keen.
Nature finds rebels now in flesh and blood,
And hearts grow sick for change and eyes for green.
Let us away! What profits it that men
Are wise as gods, if winter holds its sway,
If blood be chilled, and numbness clasp the brain?
Frost is too stubborn. Let us then away!
Away to Egypt! There we may forget
All but the presence of the blessed sun.
There in our tents well--housed, sublimely set
Under a pyramid, with horse and gun,
We may make terms with Nature and, awhile,
Put as it were our souls to grass, and run
Barefooted and barehearted in the smile
Of that long summer which still girds the Nile.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: LXXXIX
THE LIMIT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE
There is a vice in the world's reasoning. Man
Has conquered knowledge. He has conquered power;
He has traced out the universal plan
Of the Earth's being; and in this last hour
He has unmade the God which he had made.
I cannot doubt but he at length has read
The riddle of the Earth; that he is wise.
He also hath dominion charterèd
Over the lands, the oceans, and the skies,
Which toil and sweat to give him daily bread.
--Knowledge he hath, and power upon the Earth,
And long ago he had himself been God,
But for the cruel secret of his birth,
Which gave him kindred with the dust he trod,
And for the hideous ending of his mirth,
A fly--blown carrion festering 'neath the sod.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. March
A WEEK AT PARIS
When loud March from the East begins to blow,
And earth and heaven are black, then off we hie
By the night train to Paris, where we know
Three windows set to the meridian sky,
A third floor in the Rue de Rivoli.
There we will stop and see the fair world move
For our sole pleasure past us, you and I,
And make pretence we are once more in love.
We need not fret at loss of pence or time,
Though Father Bignon's smiles are paid in gold.
This life in idleness is more sublime
Than all our toil and all our wealth twice told.
We need not fret. To--night for us shall Faure,
Sara, Dupuis, or L'heritier unfold
New stores of mirth and music, and once more
We two shall sup, and at the Maison d'or.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LIV
HE DESIRES THE IMPOSSIBLE
If it were possible the fierce sun should,
Standing in heaven unloved, companionless,
Enshrinèd be in some white--bosomed cloud,
And so forget his rage and loneliness;
If it were possible the bitter seas
Should suddenly grow sweet, till at their brink
Birds with bright eyes should stoop athirst and drink;
--If these were possible; and if to these
It should be proved that love has sometimes been
'Twixt lambs and leopards, doves and hawks, that snow
Clasps the bare rocks, that rugged oaks grow green
In the west wind, that pinkest blossoms blow
Upon May's blackest thorn;--then, only then,
I might believe that love between us two
Was still in heaven's gift, sweet child.--And you?
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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