Wilfrid Scawen Blunt poems

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt(1840 - 1922 / England)
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet X

- by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt 148

Whence is our pleasure in things beautiful?
We are not born with it, we do not know,
By instinct of the eye or natural rule,
That naked rocks are fairest, or flowers blow
Best in their clefts, or that the world of snow
Has other glory than of cold and ice.
From our mother's hand we viewed these things below
Senseless as goats which browse a precipice,
Till we were taught to know them. With what tears
I con the lessons now I learned so well,
Of mountain shapes, from those dead lips of hers;
And as she spoke, behold, a miracle
Proving her words,--for at our feet there grew,
Beauty's last prodigy, a gentian blue.

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet III

- by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt 119

I will break through my bondage. Let me be
Homeless once more, a wanderer on the Earth,
Marked with my soul's sole care for company,
Like Cain, lest I do murder on my hearth.
I ask not others' goods, nor wealth nor worth,
Nor the world's kindness, which should comfort me,
But to forget the story of my birth,
And go forth naked of all name, but free.
Where the flowers blow, there let me sit and dream.
Where the rain falls, ah! leave my tears their way.
Where men laugh loud, I too will join the hymn,
And in God's congregation let me pray.
Only alone--I ask this thing--alone,
Where none may know me, or have ever known.

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