Here you will find thePoemA New Pilgrimage: Sonnet Iof poet Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Care killed a cat, and I have cares at home, Which vex me nightly and disturb my bed. The things I love have all grown wearisome; The things that loved me are estranged or dead. I have a house most fair, but tenanted With shadows only, gardens of tall trees, Fenced in and made secure from every dread But this one terror, my soul's lack of ease. I have much wealth of pleasure, horse and hound, Woods broad for sport, and fields that are my own, With neighbours of good cheer to greet me round, And servants tried by whom my will is done. Here all things live at peace in this dear place, All but my pride, which goes companionless.
