THE DESOLATE CITY
by: Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
(1840-1922)
- ARK
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 of 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 I loved in my strength, that spoke to my
soul?
- Where are those passionate eyes that appeal'd to my eyes
in passion?
- Where is the mouth that kiss'd me, the breast 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 still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven,
- See, my desire is fulfill'd in thee, for it fills the earth.
-
- Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn'd 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 belovèd'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 climb'd to its goal and there encircled
- All that those desolate walls once held, my belovèd's
heart.
-
- There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when I loved
not.
- She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips.
- She told me all her pain and show'd me all her trouble.
- I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return'd her kiss.
-
- Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld
them.
- Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my
life.
- Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance;
- This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown
wise.
-
- Weeping strangled my voice. I call'd out, but none answer'd;
- Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door;
- She whom I love, who loved me, look'd not on my yearning,
- Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show'd me no more her
soul.
-
- Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness,
- Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day;
- Therefore I find no love in heaven, no light, no beauty,
- A heaven taken by storm where none are left but the slain!
"The Desolate City" is
reprinted from The Oxford book of English Verse. Ed. Arthur
Thomas Quiller-Couch. Oxford: Clarendon, 1919. |
MORE POEMS BY WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |
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