SIBYLLINE BOOKS <br />When first, a boy, at your fair knees I kneeled, <br />'Twas with a worthy offering. In my hand <br />My young life's book I held, a volume sealed, <br />Which none but you, I deemed, might understand. <br />And you I did entreat to loose the band <br />And read therein your own soul's destiny. <br />But, Tarquin--like, you turned from my demand, <br />Too proudly fair to find your fate in me. <br />When now I come, alas, what hands have turned <br />Those virgin pages! Some are torn away, <br />And some defaced, and some with passion burned, <br />And some besmeared with life's least holy clay. <br />Say, shall I offer you these pages wet <br />With blood and tears? And will your sorrow read <br />What your joy heeded not?--Unopened yet <br />One page remains. It still may hold a fate, <br />A counsel for the day of utter need. <br />Nay, speak, sad heart, speak quick. The hour is late. <br />Age threatens us. The Gaul is at the gate.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-love-sonnets-of-proteus-part-iii-gods-and-false-gods-lxix/
