Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

Fools! must we ever quarrel with our fate,
Too late
Reading the worth of what we did despise,
And wise
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O WORLD, in very truth thou art too young;
When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age?
World, with thy covering of yellow flowers,
Hast thou forgot what generations sprung
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A prison is a convent without God.
Poverty, Chastity, Obedience
Its precepts are. In this austere abode
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Yet it is pitiful how friendships die,
Spite of our oaths eternal and high vows.
Some fall through blight of tongues wagged secretly,
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What shall I tell you, child, in this new Sonnet?
Life's art is to forget, and last year's sowing
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Long have I searched the Earth for liberty
In desert places and lands far abroad
Where neither Kings nor constables should be,
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And here too I, the latest fool of Time,
Sad child of doubt and passionate desires,
Touched with all pity, yet in league with crime,
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What price, child, shall I pay for your bright eyes
(How large a debt!) the light they shed on me?
What for your cheeks, so red in their surprise,
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Jacinths and jessamines and jonquils sweet,
All odorous pale flowers from Orient lands,
No vain red roses strew I at thy feet,
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I will release my soul of argument.
He that would love must follow with shut eyes.
My reason of the years was discontent,
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