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