A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XIV
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt 1840 (Petworth House) – 1922 (United Kingdom)
To--day there is no cloud upon thy face,
Paris, fair city of romance and doom!
Thy memories do not grieve thee, and no trace
Lives of their tears for us who after come.
All is forgotten--thy high martyrdom,
Thy rage, thy vows, thy vauntings, thy disgrace,
With those who died for thee to beat of drum,
And those who lived to see thee kingdomless.
Indeed thou art a woman in thy mirths,
A woman in thy griefs which leave thee young,
A prudent virgin still, despite the births
Of these sad prodigies thy bards have sung.
What to thy whoredoms is a vanished throne?
A chair where a fool sat, and he is gone!
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 34 sec read
- 54 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABACCACAADEDFG |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 599 |
Words | 116 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 14 |
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"A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XIV" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 4 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/38593/a-new-pilgrimage:-sonnet-xiv>.
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