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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536320" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XV</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536320" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">For thus it is. You flout at kings to--day.<br>To--morrow in your pride you shall stoop low<br>To a new tyrant who shall come your way,<br>And serve him meekly with mock--serious brow,<br>While the world laughs. I shall not laugh at you.<br>Your Bourbon, Bonaparte or Boulanger<br>Are foils to your own part of ingénue<br>Which moves me most, the moral of your play.<br>You have a mission in the world, to teach<br>All pride its level. Poet, prince and clown,<br>Each in your amorous arms has scaled the breach<br>Of his own pleasure and the world's renown.<br>Till with a yawn you turn, and from your bed<br>Kick out your hero with his ass's head.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a></strong></div>

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