Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

'Twas thus with my Natalia, suppliant soul,
Who loved young Adrian to her heart's despite,
And loved him dearly, yet could not cajole
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So I, I am ashamed of my old life,
Here in this saintly presence of days gone,
Ashamed of my weak heart's unmeaning strife,
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The poets, every one, have sung of passion.
But which has sung of friendship, man with man?
Love seeks its price, but friendship has a fashion
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Youth is all valiant. He and I together,
Conscious of strength, and unreproved of wrong,
Strained at the world's conventions as a tether
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If I have since done evil in my life,
I was not born for evil. This I know.
My soul was a thing pure from sensual strife.
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When Astraled was lying, like to die
Of love's green sickness, all his bed was strown
With buds of crocus and anemone,
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Whom the gods love die young. Ah, do not doubt of it.
Laura did well to die. Our loss was a gain for her,
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I WOULD I had thy courage, dear, to face
This bankruptcy of love, and greet despair
With smiling eyes and unconcerned embrace,
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Oh! woe is me for beauty idly blown!
And woe for passionate youth and joys that wait!
And woe for foolish love that is undone
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Rather I hold with those that tell it thus,
That they, who had made proof of their great faith,
Were joined no less with honour in love's house
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