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, nor 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 for ever and a day.