Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

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

Twenty days are barely gone,
I was merry all the day
Folly was my butt of scorn
Now the fool myself I play

O
LY not,
Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure;  Fold me thy wings,
I prithee, yet and stay:      For my heart no measure      Knows, nor other

AY, all day,
I rode upon the down,
With hounds and horsemen, a brave
On this side in its glory lay the sea,

RE 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 s...

I
ID not choose thee, dearest
It was
That made the choice, not I

RK to me is the earth
Dark to me are the heavens
Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars
Desolate are the streets

HE who has once been happy is for aye  Out of destruction's reach
His fortune
Holds nothing secret; and Eternity,  Which is a mystery to other men,
Has like a woman given him its joy

I have seen many things in many lands,
And many sorrows known and many joys,
And clutched at pleasure's cup with lawless hands,
And drunk my fill of mirth and lust and noise,

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,

AY, all day,
I rode upon the down,
With hounds and horsemen, a brave
On this side in its glory lay the sea,

I
NG have had a quarrel set with
Because he robb'd me
Every day of

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

I
KE the hunting of the hare Better than that of the fox; I like the joyous morning air, And the crowing of the cocks
I like the calm of the early fields, The ducks asleep by the lake, The quiet hour which Nature yields Before mankind is...

How beautiful is life--the physical joy of sense and breathing;
The glory of the world which has found speech and speaks to us;
The robe which summer throws in June round the white bones of winter;
The new birth of each day, itself ...

When is life other than a tragedy,
Whether it is played in tears from the first scene,
In sable robes and grief's mute pageantry,
For loves that died ere they had ever been,