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By Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

O fly not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure;

Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay:

For my heart no measure

Knows, or other treasure

To buy a garland for my love to-day.

And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow,

Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away:

For I fain would borrow

Thy sad weeds to-morrow,

To make a mourning for love’s yesterday.

The voice of Pity, Time’s divine dear Pity,

Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay,

But passed forth from the city,

Making thus my ditty

Of fair love lost forever and a day.