Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems
|401.||A Lesson In Humility||4/13/2010|
|402.||A Glory Gone||4/13/2010|
|403.||A Dream Of Good||4/13/2010|
|405.||A Digit Of The Moon||4/13/2010|
|406.||A Day In The Castle Of Envy||4/13/2010|
|407.||A Cuckoo Song||4/13/2010|
|408.||A Convent Wothout God||4/13/2010|
|409.||A Chaunt In Praise||4/13/2010|
|410.||A Ballad Of The Heather||4/13/2010|
Laughter And Death
THERE is no laughter in the natural world
Of beast or fish or bird, though no sad doubt
Of their futurity to them unfurled
Has dared to check the mirth-compelling shout.
The lion roars his solemn thunder out
To the sleeping woods. The eagle screams her cry.
Even the lark must strain a serious throat
To hurl his blest defiance at the sky.
Fear, anger, jealousy, have found a voice.
Love’s pain or rapture the brute bosoms swell.
Nature has symbols for her nobler joys,
Her nobler sorrows. Who had dared foretell
That only man, by some sad ...
The Desolate City
DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens.
Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars?
Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city.
A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.
Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters,
Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love.
Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen'd to their chaunting;
Each one sang to his love;