SONG
By Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
O fly not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure;
Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay:
For my heart no measure
Knows, or other treasure
To buy a garland for my love to-day.
And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow,
Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away:
For I fain would borrow
Thy sad weeds to-morrow,
To make a mourning for love's yesterday.
The voice of Pity, Time's divine dear Pity,
Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay,
But passed forth from the city,
Making thus my ditty
Of fair love lost forever and a day.
THE DESOLATE CITY
By Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Dark 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. Desolate is the city.
A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.
