Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

'Tis time I stepped from Horeb to the plain.
Mountains, farewell. I need a heavier air.
Youth's memories are not good for souls in pain,
...

O for a soul surrendered of all guile!
A plain white soul with nothing on it writ,
No creed of mockery to make men smile,
...

And so it was that, sitting ever thus
Dumb to all speech of those that knew her woe
And bare with her sole sorrow in the house,
...

He slept as only under the free heaven
It is given to sleep, a slumber shadowless
As the broad river to whose banks at even
...

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,
...

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,
...

What shall I tell you, dear, who have told all,
What do, whose wish, whose will is manacled,
...

Woe is me for 'Ommi 'Aufa! Woe for the tents of her
lost on thy stony plain, Durráj, on thine, Mutethéllemi!
...

Ho, ye that thirst beside the running stream!
Love is a running stream, whose waters flow
Upon the earth, and who would drink thereof
...

Poet of love, I sing here my whole soul to you.
Ah, might I all deeds dare, love would I prove to you.
...