Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

(1840 - 1922 / England)

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet Xiv - Poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

To--day there is no cloud upon thy face,
Paris, fair city of romance and doom!
Thy memories do not grieve thee, and no trace
Lives of their tears for us who after come.
All is forgotten--thy high martyrdom,
Thy rage, thy vows, thy vauntings, thy disgrace,
With those who died for thee to beat of drum,
And those who lived to see thee kingdomless.
Indeed thou art a woman in thy mirths,
A woman in thy griefs which leave thee young,
A prudent virgin still, despite the births
Of these sad prodigies thy bards have sung.
What to thy whoredoms is a vanished throne?
A chair where a fool sat, and he is gone!

Comments about A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet Xiv by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 13, 2010

[Report Error]