Written At Florence
O
LD, in very truth thou art too young;
When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age?
World, with thy covering of yellow flowers,
Hast thou forgot what generations
Out of thy loins and loved thee and are gone?
Hast thou no place in all their
Where thou dost only weep, that I may
Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers? O world, in very truth thou art too young.
The heroic wealth of passionate
Built thee fair cities for thy naked plains:
How hast thou set thy summer growth
The broken stones which were their palaces!
Hast thou forgot the darkness where he
Who made thee beautiful, or have thy
Found out his grave to build their honeycombs?
O world, in very truth thou art too young:
They gave thee love who measured out thy skies,
And, when they found for thee another star,
Who made a festival and straightway
The jewel on thy neck.
O merry world,
Hast thou forgot the glory of those
Which first look'd love in thine?
Thou hast not
One banner of thy bridal car for them. O world, in very truth thou art too young.
There was a voice which sang about thy spring,
Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips,
And lo, the worms had hardly left his
Before thy nightingales were come again.
O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing?
Say, has thy merriment no secret pain,
No sudden weariness that thou art young?
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Other author posts
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Oh leave the past to buy its own dead The past is naught to us, the present all What need of last year's leaves to strew Love's bed
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Twenty days are barely gone, I was merry all the day Folly was my butt of scorn Now the fool myself I play
Gibraltar
EN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of Upon the huge Atlantic, and once We ride into still water and the Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either
Written At Sea
What is my quarrel with thee, beautiful sea, That thus I cannot love thy waves or thee, Or hear thy voice but it tormenteth me Why do I hate thee, who art beautiful Beyond all beauty, when the nights are cool,
