Many are called, dear heart, to happiness, <br />But few are chosen, even for a wild short year. <br />Love calls us from our sleep, and we make stress <br />To rise and greet him in a world austere <br />With a sweet dawn, while blithe as chanticleer <br />He carols his brave message, and we loosen <br />The shutters of our grief to find him near. <br />Many are called by Love, but few are chosen. <br /> <br />Love's voice is truth. He speaks his messages <br />In tones we dare not doubt, and we give ear <br />As to a prophet of our wilderness, <br />The glorious lord of a new hemisphere. <br />And we run, we too, glorious, without fear, <br />Like children on bright ice too thinly frozen, <br />Gay to our doom. Ah me! The plunge was sheer. <br />Many are called by Love, but few are chosen. <br /> <br />Love chooses whom he will to ban or bless. <br />My fate was a wild shepherd's on the drear <br />Plains of wan hope, whose one--time shepherdess <br />Was lost even in the winning, and whose cheer <br />Has since been of the yellow leaf and sere, <br />(Scorned is the rose--tree Time finds no last rose on) <br />And silence claims him and the end is near. <br />Many are called by Love, but few are chosen. <br /> <br />Queen of my life! I do not love you less <br />Because you choose not me to cast your woes on. <br />It is enough for me you once said ``Yes.'' <br />Many are called by Love, but few are chosen.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/many-are-called-2/
