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