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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part I: To Manon: XIII
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HE DARES NOT DIE
 Four hours by the clock! How strange it is! Four hours
 Since love and life, the future and the past,
 Died with the shutting of these silent doors,
 And thought became to me one purpose vast.
 I have not moved from where she sat. The cast
 Of her fingers on this cushion lightly scores
 Its surface still; and still I hear the last
 Tones of her laughter, and here lie her flowers.
 Poor flowers! The ugliness of grief has wrought
 Your change already. No besotted bloom
 Of a false dawn has lured you to base life.
 You at the pinch were brave and trifled not,
 Going ungrudging to our common doom.
 And I? Ah God! I have not faced the knife!
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