Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

To do some little good before I die;
To wake some echoes to a loftier theme;
To spend my life's last store of industry
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I dreamed
A dream of you,
Not as you seemed
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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.
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SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm
Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more
We ride into still water and the calm
Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either shore
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TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,
With hounds and horsemen, a brave company
On this side in its glory lay the sea,
On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.
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HE who has once been happy is for aye
   Out of destruction's reach. His fortune then
Holds nothing secret; and Eternity,
   Which is a mystery to other men,
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Love has its secrets, joy has its revealings.
How shall I speak of that which love has hid?
If my beloved shall return to greet me,
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This book is written for Man's ultimate need,
A creed of joy sent down to the aged Earth
From days of happier daring and more mirth
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'Tis time, my soul, thou shouldst be purged of pride.
What men are these with thee, whose ill deeds done
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Ah, Paris, Paris! What an echo rings
Still in those syllables of vain delight!
What voice of what dead pleasures on what wings
...