Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

1840 - 1922 / England

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet Xxix

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.
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