Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

Behold, this hour I love, as in the glory of morn.
I too, the accursèd one, whom griefs pursue
Like phantoms through a land of deaths forlorn,
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Here our roads part. Go thou by thy green valley,
Thy youth before thee and the river Nile.
My path lies o'er the desert, and my galley
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At such a time indeed of youth's first morn,
There is a heaving of the soul in pain,
A mighty labour as of joys unborn,
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She watched me curiously with mocking eyes,
Yet tenderly, till once again her mirth
Prevailed with her, and quick in feigned surprise
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``We shall be friends. How friends? You must know me first.
What? Like the Pont Neuf? Should you wish it? Well,
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The day draws nigh, methinks, when I could stay
Calm in thy presence with no dream of ill,
When, having put all earthliness away,
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Wild words I write, and lettered in deep pain,
To lay in your loved hand as love's farewell.
It is the thought we shall not meet again
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'Tis ended truly, truly as was best.
Love is a little thing, for one short day;
You could not make it your life's only quest,
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The Moon has gone to her rest,
A full hour ago.
The Pleiads have found a nest
In the waves below.
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These little presents of your tenderness,
Although less grand a gift than was your love,
Are dear to me in this October stress
...