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Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde
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A Vision
Two crowned Kings, and One that stood aloneWith no green weight of laurels round his head,But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,And wearied with man's never-ceasing moanFor sins no bleating victim can atone,And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.Girt was he in a garment black and red,And at his feet I marked a broken stoneWhich sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,I cried to Beatrice, 'Who are these?'And she made answer, knowing well each name,'AEschylos first, the second Sophokles,And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.'
Amor Intellectualis
Oft have we trod the vales of CastalyAnd heard sweet notes of sylvan music blownFrom antique reeds to common folk unknown:And often launched our bark upon that seaWhich the nine Muses hold in empery,And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe homeTill we had freighted well our argosy.Of which despoiled treasures these remain,Sordello's passion, and the honeyed lineOf young Endymion, lordly TamburlaineDriving his pampered jades, and more than these,The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,And grave-browed Milton's solemn harmonies.
Apologia
Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,And at thy pleasure weave that web of painWhose brightest threads are each a wasted day?Is it thy will Love that I love so wellThat my Soul's House should be a tortured spotWherein, like evil paramours, must dwellThe quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,And sell ambition at the common mart,And let dull failure be my vestiture,And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.Perchance it may be better so at leastI have not made my heart a heart of stone,Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.Many a man hath done so; sought to fenceIn straitened bonds the ...
At Verona
How steep the stairs within King's houses areFor exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,And O how salt and bitter is the breadWhich falls from this Hound's table, - better farThat I had died in the red ways of war,Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,Than to live thus, by all things comradedWhich seek the essence of my soul to mar.'Curse God and die: what better hope than this?He hath forgotten thee in all the blissOf his gold city, and eternal day' -Nay peace: behind my prison's blinded barsI do possess what none can take away,My love and all the glory of the stars.
Athanasia
To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naughtOf all the great things men have saved from Time,The withered body of a girl was broughtDead ere the world's glad youth had touched its prime,And seen by lonely Arabs lying hidIn the dim womb of some black pyramid.But when they had unloosed the linen bandWhich swathed the Egyptian's body, lo! was foundClosed in the wasted hollow of her handA little seed, which sown in English groundDid wondrous snow of starry blossoms bearAnd spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.With such strange arts this flower did allureThat all forgotten was the asphodel,And the brown bee, the lily's paramour,Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,But st...
Ave Maria Gratia Plena
Was this His coming! I had hoped to seeA scene of wondrous glory, as was toldOf some great God who in a rain of goldBroke open bars and fell on Danae:Or a dread vision as when SemeleSickening for love and unappeased desirePrayed to see God's clear body, and the fireCaught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,And now with wondering eyes and heart I standBefore this supreme mystery of Love:Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face,An angel with a lily in his hand,And over both the white wings of a Dove.FLORENCE.
Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)
I am weary of lying within the chaseWhen the knights are meeting in market-place.Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed townLest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.But I would not go where the Squires ride,I would only walk by my Lady's side.Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,A Forester's son may not eat off gold.Will she love me the less that my Father is seenEach Martinmas day in a doublet green?Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.Ah, if she is working the arras brightI might ravel the threads by the fire-light.Perchance she is hunting of the deer,How could you follow o'er hill and mere?Ah, if she is riding with the court,I might run beside her ...
By The Arno
The oleander on the wallGrows crimson in the dawning light,Though the grey shadows of the nightLie yet on Florence like a pall.The dew is bright upon the hill,And bright the blossoms overhead,But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,The little Attic song is still.Only the leaves are gently stirredBy the soft breathing of the gale,And in the almond-scented valeThe lonely nightingale is heard.The day will make thee silent soon,O nightingale sing on for love!While yet upon the shadowy groveSplinter the arrows of the moon.Before across the silent lawnIn sea-green vest the morning steals,And to love's frightened eyes revealsThe long white fingers of the dawnFast climbing up the eastern skyTo gras...
Camma
(To Ellen Terry)As one who poring on a Grecian urnScans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,And for their beauty's sake is loth to turnAnd face the obvious day, must I not yearnFor many a secret moon of indolent bliss,When in midmost shrine of ArtemisI see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?And yet methinks I'd rather see thee playThat serpent of old Nile, whose witcheryMade Emperors drunken, come, great Egypt, shakeOur stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,I am grown sick of unreal passions, makeThe world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!
Canzonet
I have no storeOf gryphon-guarded gold;Now, as before,Bare is the shepherd's fold.Rubies nor pearlsHave I to gem thy throat;Yet woodland girlsHave loved the shepherd's note.Then pluck a reedAnd bid me sing to thee,For I would feedThine ears with melody,Who art more fairThan fairest fleur-de-lys,More sweet and rareThan sweetest ambergris.What dost thou fear?Young Hyacinth is slain,Pan is not here,And will not come again.No horned FaunTreads down the yellow leas,No God at dawnSteals through the olive trees.Hylas is dead,Nor will he e'er divineThose little redRose-petalled lips of thine.On the high hillNo ivory dryads play,Silver and stillSi...
Desespoir
The seasons send their ruin as they go,For in the spring the narciss shows its headNor withers till the rose has flamed to red,And in the autumn purple violets blow,And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom againAnd this grey land grow green with summer rainAnd send up cowslips for some boy to mow.But what of life whose bitter hungry seaFlows at our heels, and gloom of sunless nightCovers the days which never more return?Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burnWe lose too soon, and only find delightIn withered husks of some dead memory.
E Tenebris
Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand,For I am drowning in a stormier seaThan Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,My heart is as some famine-murdered landWhence all good things have perished utterly,And well I know my soul in Hell must lieIf I this night before God's throne should stand.'He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,Like Baal, when his prophets howled that nameFrom morn to noon on Carmel's smitten height.'Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,The wounded hands, the weary human face.
Easter Day
The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:The people knelt upon the ground with awe:And borne upon the necks of men I saw,Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.My heart stole back across wide wastes of yearsTo One who wandered by a lonely sea,And sought in vain for any place of rest:'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest.I, only I, must wander wearily,And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.'
Endymion (For Music)
The apple trees are hung with gold,And birds are loud in Arcady,The sheep lie bleating in the fold,The wild goat runs across the wold,But yesterday his love he told,I know he will come back to me.O rising moon! O Lady moon!Be you my lover's sentinel,You cannot choose but know him well,For he is shod with purple shoon,You cannot choose but know my love,For he a shepherd's crook doth bear,And he is soft as any dove,And brown and curly is his hair.The turtle now has ceased to callUpon her crimson-footed groom,The grey wolf prowls about the stall,The lily's singing seneschalSleeps in the lily-bell, and allThe violet hills are lost in gloom.O risen moon! O holy moon!Stand on the top of Helice,And if my...
Fabien Dei Franchi
(To my Friend Henry Irving)The silent room, the heavy creeping shade,The dead that travel fast, the opening door,The murdered brother rising through the floor,The ghost's white fingers on thy shoulders laid,And then the lonely duel in the glade,The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o'er,These things are well enough, but thou wert madeFor more august creation! frenzied LearShould at thy bidding wander on the heathWith the shrill fool to mock him, RomeoFor thee should lure his love, and desperate fearPluck Richard's recreant dagger from its sheathThou trumpet set for Shakespeare's lips to blow!
Flower Of Love
Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the faultwas, had I not been made of common clayI had climbed the higher heights unclimbedyet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.From the wildness of my wasted passion I hadstruck a better, clearer song,Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battledwith some Hydra-headed wrong.Had my lips been smitten into music by thekisses that but made them bleed,You had walked with Bice and the angels onthat verdant and enamelled mead.I had trod the road which Dante treading sawthe suns of seven circles shine,Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,as they opened to the Florentine.And the mighty nations would have crownedme, who am crownless now and without name,And some orient dawn...
From Spring Days To Winter (For Music)
In the glad springtime when leaves were green,O merrily the throstle sings!I sought, amid the tangled sheen,Love whom mine eyes had never seen,O the glad dove has golden wings!Between the blossoms red and white,O merrily the throstle sings!My love first came into my sight,O perfect vision of delight,O the glad dove has golden wings!The yellow apples glowed like fire,O merrily the throstle sings!O Love too great for lip or lyre,Blown rose of love and of desire,O the glad dove has golden wings!But now with snow the tree is grey,Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,See at her silent feet I layA dove with broken wings!Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slainFond Dove, fond ...