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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XI
Work rating: Low

I have it still, a book with pages sewn
 Cross--wise in silk, and brimming with these flowers,
 Treasures we gathered there, long sere and brown,
 The ghosts of childhood`s first undoubting hours,
 Of childhood in the mountains ere the powers
 Of wrong and pain had turned our joys to gall.
 That summer stands to me a tower of towers,
 To which my gladness clings in spite of all.
 There was one special wonder in the hills,
 A place where nets were hung from tree to tree
 For flights of pigeons. This beyond all else
 Touched my boy`s fancy for its mystery,
 And for the men who, caged aloft on poles,
 Scared down the birds, as Satan scares men`s souls.
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