Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
A dream of you,
Not as you seemed
When you were late unkind
To my eyes' pleading for a debt long due,
But touched and true
And all inclined
To tenderest fancies on love's inmost theme.
How sweet you were to me and ah, how kind
In that dear dream!
Your lips on mine
Mingle and melt,
And your cheek touch my cheek.
With vain desires and askings for a sign
Of love divine,
Found my grief break,
And wept and wept in an unending stream
Of sudden joy set free, yet could not speak,
Dumb in my dream.
You loved me then,
And I knew too
The bliss of souls in Heaven
Who look with pity on still sinning men,
And turn again
To be forgiven
In the dear arms of their God holding them,
And spend themselves in praise from morn till even
Nor break their dream.
In my mid bliss,
At midnight's stroke,
And knew you lost and gone.
I called you back to my unfinished kiss,
But only this
One word of scorn
You answered me, ``'Twas better loved to seem
Than loved to be, since all love is forsworn,
Always a dream.''
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Comments about this poem (A Dream by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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