My childhood, then, had passed a mystery <br />Shrouded by death, my boyhood a shut thing. <br />The passion of my soul as it grew free <br />With growing youth, a bird with broken wing, <br />Knew nothing of its strength to dare or do, <br />Or, if it dreamed of battle still to come, <br />That was its secret hidden in the blue <br />Of life's great vault of tears which was its doom, <br />A duty of revenge some day for blood. <br />Enough! You know I held me from the press <br />To whom base things are nothing, that I stood <br />Parted from this world's weekday wickedness <br />By a whole legend of romance sublime, <br />Perhaps by the dead virtue of a crime.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/esther-a-sonnet-sequence-xxv/
