Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

My only title to her grace
Is her sad, too silent face;
All my right to call her mine
The twin tears that on it shine,
...

Honoured I lived e'erwhile with honoured men
In opulent state. My table nightly spread
Found guests of worth, peer, priest and citizen,
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I have quarrelled with the Moon. I loved her once,
As all boys love one face supremely fair.
I had heard her praised, and I too, happy dunce,
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Hush, gentle stranger. Here lies one asleep
In the tall grass whom we must not awaken.
For see, the wildest winds hush here and keep
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She seemed to change as if with a change of the wind,
And growing serious sighed, ``Now look,'' she said,
``You think me a mad woman and unkind,
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O child of Joy! What idle life is thine!
Thou, in these meadows, while thy skies are blue,
And while thy joys are new to thee like wine,
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I followed dumb and shrinking like a thief
Close in her shadow from the women's guess,
Yet ruthlessly betrayed for my cheeks' grief
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And so we went our way,--yes, hand in hand,
Like two lost children in some magic wood
Baffled and baffling with enchanter's wand
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Ancient of days! What word is thy command
To one befooled of wit and his own way?
What counsel hast thou, and what chastening hand
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Yes, Italy is wise, a cultured prude,
Stored with all maxims of a statelier age;
These are her lessons for our northern blood,
...