Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/1021

 O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe! There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe! Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I, Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT

b. 1840

816. Song

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.

817. The Desolate City

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.