---

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

How strangely now I come, a man of sorrow,
 Nor yet such sorrow as youth dreamed of, blind,
 But life`s last indigence which dares not borrow
 One garment more of Hope to cheat life`s wind.
 The mountains which we loved have grown unkind,
 Nay, voiceless rather. Neither sound nor speech
 Is heard among them, nor the thought enshrined
 Of any deity man`s tears may reach.
 If I should speak, what echo would there come,
 Of laughters lost, and dead unanswered prayers?
 The shadow of each valley is a tomb
 Filled with the dust of manifold despairs.
 ``Here we once lived``: This motto on the door
 Of silence stands, shut fast for evermore.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.