I will release my soul of argument. <br />He that would love must follow with shut eyes. <br />My reason of the years was discontent, <br />My treasure for all hope a vain surmise. <br />I will have done with wisdom's sophistries, <br />Her insolence of wit. What man shall say <br />He comfort takes in the short hour that dies, <br />Because he knew it mortal yesterday? <br />The tree of knowledge bears a bitter fruit. <br />This is that other tree, whose branches hold <br />Fair store of faith, peace, pity absolute, <br />And deeds of virtue for a world grown cold. <br />If by its fruits the tree of life be known, <br />Here is a truth undreamed of Solomon.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-xxxvii/
