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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - Many Are Called
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Many are called, dear heart, to happiness,
 But few are chosen, even for a wild short year.
 Love calls us from our sleep, and we make stress
 To rise and greet him in a world austere
 With a sweet dawn, while blithe as chanticleer
 He carols his brave message, and we loosen
 The shutters of our grief to find him near.
 Many are called by Love, but few are chosen.

 Love`s voice is truth. He speaks his messages
 In tones we dare not doubt, and we give ear
 As to a prophet of our wilderness,
 The glorious lord of a new hemisphere.
 And we run, we too, glorious, without fear,
 Like children on bright ice too thinly frozen,
 Gay to our doom. Ah me! The plunge was sheer.
 Many are called by Love, but few are chosen.

 Love chooses whom he will to ban or bless.
 My fate was a wild shepherd`s on the drear
 Plains of wan hope, whose one--time shepherdess
 Was lost even in the winning, and whose cheer
 Has since been of the yellow leaf and sere,
 (Scorned is the rose--tree Time finds no last rose on)
 And silence claims him and the end is near.
 Many are called by Love, but few are chosen.

 Queen of my life! I do not love you less
 Because you choose not me to cast your woes on.
 It is enough for me you once said ``Yes.``
 Many are called by Love, but few are chosen.
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