Clash your cymbals, maids, to--day. <br />Chaunt the praise of Cynthia. <br />You, her virgins, yokeless, free, <br />Young Time's choice, his brides--to--be. <br />Nymphs in white, who hand in hand <br />Next to her high altar stand, <br />Take your timbrels, strike your strings; <br />Tune them to Love's clamourings. <br />Heralds be of her your fairest, <br />Her of rarities the rarest. <br />Instant all her laud rehearse, <br />Idol of your universe; <br />And thus armed stand forth and say, <br />``All is nought but Cynthia.'' <br /> <br />Clash your cymbals. Beat your drums. <br />Cynthia in her glory comes, <br />High with him whose duty is <br />Her to lead to a new bliss. <br />Ah, what fortune his to be <br />Angel of her ecstasy! <br />Red with roses Love's path lies, <br />Rich in rainbows of surprise. <br />They that tread it wiser are <br />Than the wise kings with their star, <br />Eve and morn who went pursuing <br />Eve's old hopes to Time's undoing, <br />Robbing Time of his vain wrath. <br />Run to Love; take all he hath, <br />Idle maids! Nay, shout and sing, <br />In Love's praise new chorusing, <br />Stintless this thrice happy day. <br />Shout aloud for Cynthia!<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-wedding-march/
