Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

Oh, miracle of love! That death, which seems
So hard a master when he holds his prize,
Whom no cajoleries, nor stratagems
...

Away! Away! Away with her, young lover,
Away with her in haste lest dawn should break;
If that her kinsmen should thy deed discover
...

My prison has its pleasures. Every day
At breakfast--time, spare meal of milk and bread,
Sparrows come trooping in familiar way
...

This is thy day, thy day of all the years.
Ireland! The night of anger and mute gloom,
Where thou didst sit, has vanished with thy tears.
...

O Thou enfolded in grief,
Man, with thy mantle of scorn!
Arise and warn!
Unloved prophet of ill
...

I had been an hour at Lyons. My breath comes
Fast when I think of it. An hour, no more,
I trod those streets and listened to the drums,
...

Thus it began with laughter. But anon
The ox--eyed queen, who had resumed by rote
The tale of her perfections one by one,
...

Suddenly then my strange companion cried,
``Bring me the body.'' In a moment more
She had thrown off her hat, her veil untied,
...

Oh, 'tis a terrible thing in early youth
To be assailed by laughter and mute shame,
A terrible thing to be befooled forsooth
...

Tears, idle tears! Ah, who shall bid us weep,
Now that thy lyre, O prophet, is unstrung?
What voice shall rouse the dull world from its sleep
...