The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XXIII
ASKING FOR HER HEART
Give me thy heart, Juliet, give me thy heart!
I have a need of it, an absolute need,
Because my own heart has thus long been dead.
I live but by thy life. The very smart
Of this new pain which has been born of thee
Is thine, thy own great pleasure's counterpart.
I stand before thee naked. Clothe thou me.
Bring out a robe,--thy truth, thy chastity.
Put rings upon my fingers,--honour's meed.
For thou canst give, nor ever reck the cost,
Being the royal creature that thou art,
The fountain of all honour, whose high boast
Is to be greatest when thou givest most.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Two Voices
There are two voices with me in the night,
Easing my grief. The God of Israel saith,
``I am the Lord thy God which vanquisheth.
See that thou walk unswerving in my sight,
So shall thy enemies thy footstool be.
I will avenge.'' Then wake I suddenly,
And, as a man new armoured for the fight,
I shout aloud against my enemy.
Anon, another speaks, a voice of care
With sorrow laden and akin to grief,
``My son,'' it saith, ``What is my will with thee?
The burden of my sorrows thou shalt share.
With thieves thou too shalt be accounted thief,
And in my kingdom thou shalt sup with me.''
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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A Vision Of Folly
I saw one rushing madly in pursuit
Of Liberty. With frenzied steps he strode.
Old laws and customs with disdainful foot
He spurned beneath him in a mire of blood.
He stood before the wondering world a god,
A king with Freedom for his spouse and queen.
He felt his empire was divine and trod,
As on a footstool, on the necks of men.
Ruin awhile and havoc strewed his path.
He had his day of glory and his fall.
He stood once more upon his father's hearth,
Sated with pride, and there in frenzy worse
Wrought foul dishonour on that honoured hall,
And left its walls forever with a curse.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: LII
I lived with Esther, not for many days,
If days be counted by the fall of night
And the sun's rising, yet through years of praise,
If truth be timepiece of joys infinite.
And what a life it was! No vain sweet dream
Of love in idleness which all men know,
But a full drama fashioned on the theme
Of strength victorious over death and woe.
Here was no faltering. Ours the triumph was
Of that strong logic which beholds each day
As a new world to conquer, and the cause
Itself complete of a more glorious fray.
To--day our cycle was. In it sublime
We sat enthroned as on the neck of Time.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: LIII
For Esther was a woman most complete
In all her ways of loving. And with me
Dealt as one deals who careless of deceit
And rich in all things is of all things free.
She did not stop with me to feel her way
Into my heart, because she all hearts knew,
But, like some prodigal heir of yesterday
Just in possession, counted not her due
And grandly gave. O brave humility!
O joy that kneels! O pride that stoops to tears!
She spent where others had demanded fee,
Served where all service had of right been hers,
Casting her bread of life upon love's ways,
Content to find it after many days.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Natalia’s Resurrection: Sonnet XIX
And still the music sounded near and near,
Loud and more loud on Adrian's nuptial way,
Preluding soft, as 'twere a dulcimer,
But gathering strength and volume with delay,
And sadness too. In truth, as strange a chaunt
As ever bridegroom's ear might choose to know,
Or lover's voice to listening lover vaunt,
(Thus Adrian argued in his dream) for, lo,
The dirge resolved itself to words of pain,
And ``Miserere mei Domine''
Became the burden of its dolorous strain,
Till the love faded from Natalia's glee,
And with a sudden shudder in the sun
Adrian awoke and his brave dream was done.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Natalia’s Resurrection: Sonnet XV
Anon, ere yet his pleasure was aware
Of other presence with him in that place,
A growing murmur in the jubilant air,
With hum of voices gathering apace,
And laughter interchanged, and tones well known,
And steps approaching him familiar--wise,
And names that seemed an echo of his own,
Broke on his musing. Turning in surprise
He saw around him a gay company,
Faces of kinsmen or of friends as near,
But dead or changed or wed: all now in joy,
Such as they showed him once in days more dear
Ere yet his manhood had been touched with pain,
Stood forth to greet him to their hearts again.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XXVI
THE SAME--A CHRISTMAS SONNET
Since thou hast given me these, Juliet, given me these,
There have been tidings told of a great joy,
Of peace on Earth, good--will without annoy.
Thou hast put on my soul's infirmities
And stooped to succour me, and thou hast trod
The way of sorrows with me, on thy knees,
Making thyself a little less than God,
That I might worship him in womanhood,
A new redemption. Therefore, Juliet,
The choirs of Heaven multitudinous
Make all their songs to thee this happy night,
In praise of thy great love incarnate thus,
A very ``word made flesh'' to dwell with us.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Not A Word
Love, my heart is faint with waiting,
Faint with hope and joy deferred,
All night long at this sad grating,
Sleepless like a prisoned bird,
Singing low,
Singing slow:
Come, ah come, love.--Not a word!
Love, in vain for thee this token
Did I tie, poor silken cord,
To my window. See, 'tis broken
And the strands fly heavenward.
All are free,
All but me.
Come, ah come, love.--Not a word!
Lo, the first sad streak of morning
Cleaves the heaven like a sword.
Love, too late I hear the warning,
Of thy footstep on the sward.
[...] Read more
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXXVII
I will release my soul of argument.
He that would love must follow with shut eyes.
My reason of the years was discontent,
My treasure for all hope a vain surmise.
I will have done with wisdom's sophistries,
Her insolence of wit. What man shall say
He comfort takes in the short hour that dies,
Because he knew it mortal yesterday?
The tree of knowledge bears a bitter fruit.
This is that other tree, whose branches hold
Fair store of faith, peace, pity absolute,
And deeds of virtue for a world grown cold.
If by its fruits the tree of life be known,
Here is a truth undreamed of Solomon.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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