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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - To Her Whose Name
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To her whose name,
 With its sweet sibilant sound like sudden showers
 Splashing the grass and flowers,
 Hath set my April heart aflame;

 To her whose face,
 The flower and crown of all created things,
 Dearer than even Spring`s,
 Hath been to me a sacrament of grace;

 Whose luminous mind,
 Stored with all gladness of the earth and sky,
 Hath lightened my sad eye
 And made it wise in love which erst was blind;

 Whose voice of pleasure,
 Calling to joys as a blithe wedding bell
 When ringers ring it well,
 Hath tuned my soul to its own happy measure;

 Whose blessed hand,
 With its white mystery of fingers five,
 Each one a soul alive,
 Hath taught me truths no angels understand;

 Whose arms within,
 Should she once clasp me to her very heart,
 God knoweth we should not part
 But live for aye in Heaven`s own bliss divine;

 To her, alas,
 Who is so near, yet standeth still so far,
 Seeing the mortal bar
 Betwixt us ever which we cannot pass,

 These lines I send
 With my heart`s tears to--night beseeching her,
 Of her dear love more dear,
 To be no less to me my sweetest soul and friend.
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