Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

Yes, Italy is wise, a cultured prude,
Stored with all maxims of a statelier age;
These are her lessons for our northern blood,
...

How shall I bid you good--bye,
Dear, without tears?
Only once in the years,
The idle vanishing years,
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Glad bird, I do bewail thee,
Thy song it was so sweet
That Earth looked up to hail thee
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Giacinta sat upon the garden wall
Among the autumn lilies, and let fall
Their crimson petals on her lover's head,
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Here therefore ends my sad soul's pilgrimage,
In tears for sin and half--redeemed desire.
She was unworthy her high martyr's rage,
...

I had made my round, as yet with little gain
Of undiscovered good in that gay place.
I had sought my share of pleasure, but in vain.
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There is one I know. I see her sometimes pass
In the morning streets upon her way to Mass,
A calm sweet woman with unearthly eyes.
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Love, love, in vain
We count the days of Spring.
Lost is all love's pain,
Lost the songs we sing.
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It was a booth no larger than the rest,
No loftier fashioned and no more sublime,
As poor a shrine as ever youth possessed
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Say what you will, there is not in the world
A nobler sight than from this upper Down.
No rugged landscape here, no beauty hurled
...