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