Twenty Days
Twenty days are barely gone,
I was merry all the day.
Folly was my butt of scorn.
Now the fool myself I play.
Wit and learning ruled my head,
Logic and economy.
All the books I ever read
Taught me only vanity.
Most of all it moved my mirth
Womankind the world should rule.
Man, the lord of all the Earth!
He, forsooth, a woman's tool!
Cherry lip and glancing eye!
What were rosy cheeks to me?
Beauty's truth was but a lie--
Witness tomes of history!
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Eviction
Unruly tenant of my heart,
Full fain would I be quit of thee.
I've played too long a losing part.
Thou bringest me neither gold nor fee.
'Tis time thou shouldst thy holding yield,
Thy will and mine no longer meet.
With cockle hast thou sowed my field,
With squanderings all the public street.
Thy presence doth disturb my pride.
Let me be owner of my own.
I fling thee with thy goods outside
And bar re--entry with a stone.
Begone and hide thee from my face.
I will not see thee chiding there.
Away, to live in my disgrace!
Away, to die in thy despair!
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LXIX
SIBYLLINE BOOKS
When first, a boy, at your fair knees I kneeled,
'Twas with a worthy offering. In my hand
My young life's book I held, a volume sealed,
Which none but you, I deemed, might understand.
And you I did entreat to loose the band
And read therein your own soul's destiny.
But, Tarquin--like, you turned from my demand,
Too proudly fair to find your fate in me.
When now I come, alas, what hands have turned
Those virgin pages! Some are torn away,
And some defaced, and some with passion burned,
And some besmeared with life's least holy clay.
Say, shall I offer you these pages wet
With blood and tears? And will your sorrow read
What your joy heeded not?--Unopened yet
One page remains. It still may hold a fate,
A counsel for the day of utter need.
Nay, speak, sad heart, speak quick. The hour is late.
Age threatens us. The Gaul is at the gate.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Death Of The Rose
Ah! life, dear life, thy summer days have flown
Swiftly yet all too late, for they did wither.
Joy should be joy for one short hour alone,
Or it will lose its loveliness for ever.
I did not spare to use the cruel knife,
But cut the rose as soon as it was day,
And gave it to my love. Its little life
Passed, like a sigh, from Nature's breast away.
Full--hearted flower, thou didst not shrink nor flee
When the steel touched thee. No sad memories
Made what thou knew not terrible to thee,
And death came on thee like a sad surprise.
Too happy flower! I would my love had died
At unawares, by such a death as thine.
I should have slain my love in its full pride,
So had it lived and been for ever mine,
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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They Shall Not Know
When thou art happy, thou dear heart of pleasure,
Because men love thee and the feasts are spread,
And Fortune in thy lap has poured her treasure,
And Spring is there and roses crown thy head,
Then think of one who loved thee for his woe,
And, if thou sigh
With others by,
They shall not know.
When thou art silent in thy day of trouble,
Because fools vex and thou hast rivals found
And love has played thee falser than a bubble
And memory stings and grief is as a wound,
Then think of one whose hand first soothed thy brow,
And, if a smile
Thy tears beguile,
These shall not know.
When all is ended, thou pale ghost of sorrow,
And time's last flower is gathered from the grove,
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LXXVII
WHO WOULD LIVE AGAIN?
Oh who would live again to suffer loss?
Once in my youth I battled with my fate,
Grudging my days to death. I would have won
A place by violence beneath the sun.
I took my pleasures madly as by force,
Even the air of heaven was a prize.
I stood a plunderer at death's very gate,
And all the lands of life I did o'errun
With sack and pillage. Then I scorned to die,
Save as a conqueror. The treasuries
Of love I ransacked; pity, pride and hate.
All that can make hearts beat or brim men's eyes
With living tears I took as robes to wear.
--But see, now time has struck me on the hip.
I cannot hate nor love. My senses are
Struck silent with the silence of my lip.
No courage kindles in my heart to dare,
No strength to do. The world's last phantoms slip
Out of my grasp, and naught is left but pain.
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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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.
Eve of our heart's shut field, need is we grieve thee,
Gone to a world more sweet where we must leave thee.
Russet--clad nightingales, tired of our chaunting,
Out in the dark we weep, our Queen--bird wanting.
Such is the fate of birds. Soon as the Spring comes
Vagrant they flit and fly. Lo! 'tis their King comes.
Endeth our night plaint only when, through the wild wood,
New born the day trips in, laughs as a child would.
O, then we too will laugh, join in the gay chime,
Run to thy marriage bells, birds of the day--time.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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You Have Let The Beauty Of The Day Go Over
You have let the beauty of the day go over,
You have let the glory of the noon go by.
Clouds from the West have gathered close and cover
All but a remnant now of our proud sky.
Dumbly the rain beats on our darkened faces.
Hushed are the woods. Alas, for us no bird
Shall sing to--day of pleasure in green places,
No touch shall thrill, no soul of leaves be stirred.
Why did we wait? What faith was ours in fortune?
What was our pride that fate should kneel to us?
Oh, we were fools. Love loves not to importune,
And he is silent here in this sad house.
Alas, dear love, the day for us is ended,
The pleasure of green fields, of streams, of skies.
One hour remains, one only of joy blended
With coming night. Ah, seize it ere it flies.
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Glad Bird, I Do Bewail Thee
Glad bird, I do bewail thee,
Thy song it was so sweet
That Earth looked up to hail thee
Till wings grew to her feet.
But, ah! thy mate is lying dead
Among the new--mown hay,
And a fowler comes to jail thee
Where thou shalt pine away.
Bright butterfly, I wail thee,
So dainty was thy wing,
So bravely didst regale thee
On every honied thing.
But thou art all too lightly clad
For any month but May,
And Autumn rains shall trail thee
And wash thy paint away.
Sweet childhood, I bewail thee.
Thy smile it shifteth ever
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Love Me A Little
Love me a little, love me as thou wilt,
Whether a draught it be of passionate wine
Poured with both hands divine,
Or just a cup of water spilt
On dying lips and mine.
Give me the love thou wilt,
The purity, the guilt,
So it be thine.
Love me a little. Let it be thy cheek
With its red signals. That were dear to kiss.
Or, if thou mayest not this,
A finger--tip my own to seek
At nightfall when none guess.
Eyes have the wit to speak,
And sighs send messages:
Even give less.
Love me a little. Let it be in words
Of happy omen heralding thy choice,
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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