Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

(1840 - 1922 / England)

Love After Sorrow - Poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Behold, this hour I love, as in the glory of morn.
I too, the accursèd one, whom griefs pursue
Like phantoms through a land of deaths forlorn,
Have felt my heart leap up with courage new.

Behold, I love. The tragedy of hate's derision
Has like a storm--cloud vanished and is done.
High in its path my hope has burst its prison
And stands transfigured, a resplendent sun.

Where are the ghosts of sorrow that beset my road,
The foes that mocked, the fools that fled from me?
Peace be their portion all who sought my blood.
I care not for fear's bondage who am free.

O days of youth renewed! Love's voice, a singing bird's,
Thrills me to tears more sweet than laughters are.
His silence godlike speaks to me in words
Dearer than minstrelsy in lands afar.

These halls, e'erwhile of pride, my sorrow's palaces,
Are decked for joy, and with high pomps and shows
Proclaim his lordship of all life that is
In passionate echoes of remembered vows.

The gardens are grown thick once more with scent of flowers
Moss--roses by the wall, sweet lavenders,
Larkspurs, red lilies. Who shall tell what dowers
Of musks and mallows golden shall be hers?

Hers? Whose? Oh, if a tongue should tell of dreams unwise
And love might blazon love to ears abroad,
How would I speak! But let this word suffice,
That to my lips one name leaps like a sword,

And that I live once more and love all sentient things,
The spirit of the Earth, and the Sun's fire,
And the night's silence and hushed wanderings,
And her who is the soul of my desire.

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 13, 2010

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