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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - Natalia’s Resurrection: Sonnet XIII
Work rating: Low

A heritage for ever. Such a sleep
 Came upon Adrian and such a dream,
 As in the shade he lay a weary heap.
 For, while he rested, still it seemed to him
 He rode towards the city of his love,
 Only in mirth not sadness. And, behold,
 In his soothed bosom Hope, a brooding dove,
 Had made again her nest, and manifold
 Fair pleasures round him seemed to perch and sing
 Like wild birds in the branches overhead,
 And his heart leaped in joy with everything,
 As in the days ere yet his joys were dead,
 Until he found himself, it seemed, in Rome
 And knocking at the doors of his own home.
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