Section: «Poems»
Verse (ancient Greek ὁ στίχος — row, structure), a term in versification used in several meanings:
artistic speech organized by division into rhythmically commensurate segments; poetry in the narrow sense; in particular, it implies the properties of versification of a particular tradition ("antique verse", "Akhmatova's verse", etc.);
a line of poetic text organized according to a certain rhythmic pattern ("My uncle of the most honest rules").
The Desert Wind
I went with happy heart (how happy!) a while sinceBehind my camel flocks,Piping all day where the Nile pastures endAnd the white sand beginsAmong the..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
The Deeds That Might Have Been
There are wrongs done in the fair face of heavenWhich cry aloud for vengeance, and shall cry;Loves beautiful in strength whose wit has strivenVainly..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
The Death Of The Rose
Ah! life, dear life, thy summer days have flownSwiftly yet all too late, for they did wither.Joy should be joy for one short hour alone,Or it will..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
The Days Of Our Youth
These are the days of our youth, our days of glory and honour.Pleasure begotten of strength is ours, the sword in our hand.Wisdom bends to our will..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
The Court Of Penance
Behold the Court of Penance. Four gaunt wallsShutting out all things but the upper heaven.Stone flags for floor, where daily from their stallsThe..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
The Canon Of Aughrim
You ask me of English honour, whether your Nation is just?Justice for us is a word divine, a name we revere,Alas, no more than a name, a thing laid..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
The Camel-Rider
There is no thing in all the world but love,No jubilant thing of sun or shade worth one sad tear.Why dost thou ask my lips to fashion songsOther than..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
The Broken Pitcher
Accursed be the hour of that sad dayThe careless potter put his hand to thee,And dared to fashion out of common claySo pure a shape as thou didst..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Tarafa
The tent lines these of Kháula in stone--stricken Tháhmadi.See where the fire has touched them, dyed dark as the hands of her.'Twas here thy friends..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
St. Valentine's Day
TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,With hounds and horsemen, a brave companyOn this side in its glory lay the sea,On that the Sussex weald, a sea..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Song Of The Desert Lark
Love, love, in vainWe count the days of Spring.Lost is all love's pain,Lost the songs we sing.Sunshine and Summer rain,Winter and Spring againStill..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Song
O FLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure; Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay: For my heart no measure Knows, nor other treasureTo..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
She Shall Not Guess
Even if I died no sound should tell it her.Death babbles, but the calm of her dear eyesIn vain would ask, no tell--tale breath should stirThe lips..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Sea-Lavender
Lavender, sea lavender!Pale sweet flower how full of her!Flower discreet, with your priest's eyesTrained in all time's mysteries,Yet how chastely..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Satan Absolved
(In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groupsconversing.)Satan. To--day is the Lord's ``day.'' Once more on His good..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Sancho Sanchez
Sancho Sanchez lay a--dying in the house of Mariquita,For his life ebbed with the ebbing of the red wound in his side.And he lay there as they left..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Requiescit
I cannot tell his story. He was oneTo whom the riddle of our human lifeWas strangely put, and who, because of thatAnd that he could not read it..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Red, Red Gold
Red, red gold, a kingdom's ransom, child,To weave thy yellow hair she bade them spin.At early dawn the gossamer spiders toiled,And wove the sunrise..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Queen Mary’s Letter To Bothwell
Pitiful gods! Have pity on my passion.Teach me the road how I a certain provingShall make to him I love of my great loving,My faith unchanged, nor..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Quatrains Of Life
What has my youth been that I love it thus,Sad youth, to all but one grown tedious,Stale as the news which last week wearied us,Or a tired actor's..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Pour Qui Sait Attendre
All things, they say, come home to those that wait,Riches, power, fame, lost fortune, hope deferred,Health to our friends, ill hap to those we..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Pictures On Enamel
When Astraled was lying, like to dieOf love's green sickness, all his bed was strownWith buds of crocus and anemone,For other flowers yet were barely..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
On The Way To Church
There is one I know. I see her sometimes passIn the morning streets upon her way to Mass,A calm sweet woman with unearthly eyes.Men turn to look at..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
On Her Lightheartedness
I WOULD I had thy courage, dear, to faceThis bankruptcy of love, and greet despairWith smiling eyes and unconcerned embrace,And these few words of..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
On A Grave In The Forest
Hush, gentle stranger. Here lies one asleepIn the tall grass whom we must not awaken.For see, the wildest winds hush here and keepSilence for her and..
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt