Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

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
...

You know the story of my birth, the name
Which I inherited for good and ill,
The secret of my father's fame and shame,
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Nor later, when with her my childhood died,
Was life less sealed to me. The Church became
My guardian next and mother deified,
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The booths were shut. The Fair was at an end,
And the crowd gone with multitudinous feet
Noisily home, or lingering still to spend
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The summer I had passed in my own fashion
High in the Alps, a proselyte to toil.
I was released and free, and spent my passion
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I linger on the threshold of my youth.
If you could see me now as then I was,
A fair--faced frightened boy with eyes of truth
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Where art thou, thou lost face,
Which, yet a little while, wert making mirth
At these new years which seemed too sad to be?
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From Caiphas to Pilate I was sent,
Who judged with unwashed hands a crime to me.
Next came the sentence, and the soldiery
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So in his agony at noon he came,
On the third day, to where without the walls
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Nor were the rest astonished. Even he,
Natalia's lord, in all complacent grace
Looked on approving of her act when she
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