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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - An Unwritten Tragedy
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Ho, ye that thirst beside the running stream!
 Love is a running stream, whose waters flow
 Upon the earth, and who would drink thereof
 Must bend him earthwards. There was such an one
 Who lay upon his belly in the mire
 And was not ashamed. Because he deemed it well
 That love, which is the strength of weaker things,
 Should make of Man a child. And, while he lay
 And summer winds were drowsing in his ears,
 The river of his love went rippling by.

 And thus he lived, and thus he might have died,
 Deaf to his fellows` scorn, and held it gain
 To lie a living corse unburied there
 Among the reeds of Time and hidden in
 From the world`s stare. But Fate was watching him
 With envious eyes; and he had merited
 In truth much retribution at her hand.
 --Alas that I should have such spite to tell!
 She took her vengeance at the fountain head,
 And made a desolation in the land.

 And how he dreamed and half outwitted Fate,
 Because his mind was single in his love;
 And how she took the pitiless winds in pay
 And set a wrack of clouds upon their back;
 And how, because she could not master him,
 She turned the waters of his love away;
 And how that man arose up from his lair,
 Foul with the ooze and with a beard grown grey
 Through his long shame; and how he turned and fled
 From the sun`s face to dwell among the tombs,

 I would relate. And, if in simple words
 How some have learned the nakedness of truth,
 The carelessness of God, Man`s cruelty
 And their own folly, it would be a tale
 To chill the lust of Youth and bend the knees
 Of Manhood`s pride before the strength of Fate
 Which conquers all;--And this I think would be
 The sum of human tragedy on Earth.
 --But who am I to stay the wings of Death
 And pluck a feather out and write such things?
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