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. Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters, Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love. Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen’d to their chaunting; Each one sang to his love; only I was alone. This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and pleasure. Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun, Each in another’s eyes finds light, the light of compassion, This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love. Speak, O desolate city! Speak, O silence in sadness! Where is she that loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul? Where are those passionate eyes that appealed to my eyes in passion? Where is the mouth that kiss’d me, the breast that I laid to my own? Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled. Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear? See, my arms enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven, See, my desire is fulfilled in thee, for it fills the earth. Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turned I from the window, Turn’d to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street, Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me, None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears. Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my beloved’s. There I stopp’d at the silent door, and listen’d and tried the latch. Love, I cried, dost thou slumber? This is no hour for slumber, This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand. I knew the house with its windows barr’d, and its leafless fig-tree, Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street; I knew where my hope had climbed to its goal and there encircled, All those desolate walls once held, my beloved’s heart.