Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems

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
...

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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A second warning, nor unheeded. Yet
The thought appealed to me as no strange thing,
Pure though I was, that love impure had set
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``Silence. I will not listen!'' ``And for what?''
She added strangely, in a softer mood.
``You see I am not angry. Do you not?
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Ah, beautiful sweet woman, made in vain,
Since Launcelot is dead and only I,
Alas for this new world of recreant men,
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He.
To what, love, shall I liken thee?
Thou, methinks, shalt firstly be
A blue flower with nodding bells
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Love me a little, love me as thou wilt,
Whether a draught it be of passionate wine
Poured with both hands divine,
Or just a cup of water spilt
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Should ever the day come when this drear world
Shall read the secret which so close I hold,
Should taunts and jeers at my bowed head be hurled,
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Yes, who shall tell the value of our tears,
Whether we wept aright or idly grieved?
There is a tragedy in unloved years,
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Jewelled offering bring I none,
Jade or pearl or precious stone,
Urn of crystal, bale of spice,
Unguent culled in Paradise,
...