Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Second son of Francis Blunt and born into an old Sussex family. When he was eighteen he entered the British diplomatic corps and he worked in Athens, Constantinople, Frankfort, Lisbon, Madrid, Paris and Argentina.
After his retirement in 1872 and his marriage to Anne Isabella Noel (the only known descendant of Lord Byron). They first met in Venice and he observed that 'she thought herself plainer than she was'.
Together with his wife he travelled on horseback through the Mid-East and lived in Cairo. Blunt opposed British rule in Egypt and was also in favor of Irish home rule. For the latter he even served a prison term.
Blunt had an affair with Jane Morris, ... more »
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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems
Laughter And Death
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.
St. Valentine's Day
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.
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
A Dream Of Good
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
A Lesson In Humility
'Tis time, my soul, thou shouldst be purged of pride. What men are these with thee, whose ill deeds done
A Love Secret
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,
A Chaunt In Praise
How many hymns have I chaunted, Lady, in laud of thee, Each with a sigh for its burthen, tear for its antiphon?
A Ballad Of The Heather
We spent a day together, One day of all our lives, Of love in cloudless weather--
A Digit Of The Moon
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
A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet VI
Away from sorrow! Yes, indeed, away! Who said that care behind the horseman sits? The train to Paris, as it flies to--day,
A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet X
Whence is our pleasure in things beautiful? We are not born with it, we do not know, By instinct of the eye or natural rule,
A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet VII
Ah, Paris, Paris! What an echo rings Still in those syllables of vain delight! What voice of what dead pleasures on what wings
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,
Love Rides Disguised
What name is his, thy knight's? Nay, ask it not. If fate should hear thee, child, what griefs might come.
Comments about Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Laughter And Death
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.
The lion roars his solemn thunder out
To the sleeping woods. The eagle screams her cry.
Even the lark must strain a serious throat
To hurl his blest defiance at the sky.
Fear, anger, jealousy, have found a voice.
Love’s pain or rapture the brute bosoms swell.
Nature has symbols for her nobler joys,
Her nobler sorrows. Who had dared foretell
That only man, by some sad ...