Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

She wakes, she breathes, she rises from her bed,
That bed of death where she has lain so long;
The flowers they set there fall from her fair head
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Dost thou remember, oh, dost thou remember,
Here as we sit at home and take our rest,
How we went out one morning on a venture

Has ...
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To--day I was at Milan, in such thought
As pilgrims bring who at faith's threshold stand,
Still burdened with the sorrows they have brought,
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I had stopped to read a handbill of the play,
Caught by the lettering. Thus it was I read,
``Programme of this night's pieces, Saturday
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Thus was my soul enfranchised. But anon,
With courage fired to full--fledged enterprise,
And pushing still the vantage I had won,
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What woes are there
I would not choose to bear
For thy dear sake?
Curses were blest, the ache
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Alas, poor Queen of Beauty! In my heart
I could weep for you and your sad graceless doom.
You stand at my life's threshold in the part
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What have I lost? The faith I had that Right
Must surely prove itself than Ill more strong.
For see how little my poor prayers had might
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All white, all light, all beautiful she stands,
Love in her eyes, a glory round her brows,
Blanched as the lilies chaste in her chaste hands.
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A glorious triumph. On that day of days
When, standing on the summit's utmost edge
Of my first mountain--top, I viewed the maze
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