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diff --git a/1141-0.txt b/1141-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c04a1b6 --- /dev/null +++ b/1141-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2681 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde, by Oscar +Wilde, Edited by Robert Ross + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde + including The Ballad of Reading Gaol + + +Author: Oscar Wilde + +Editor: Robert Ross + +Release Date: September 27, 2014 [eBook #1141] +[This file was first posted on November 21, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS OF OSCAR WILDE*** + + +Transcribed from the 1911 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + SELECTED POEMS + OF OSCAR WILDE + + + INCLUDING + + THE BALLAD OF + READING GAOL + + * * * * * + + METHUEN & CO. LTD. + 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. + LONDON + + * * * * * + +_This Volume was First _August 17th_, _1911_ +Published_ +_Second Edition_ _August_ _1911_ +_Third Edition_ _September_ _1911_ + + * * * * * + +‘_The Ballad of Reading Goal_’ _was first published by Leonard Smithers_, +_February 13th_, _1898_. _Second Edition_, _February_, _1898_. _Third +Edition_, _March 1898_. _Fourth Edition_, _March 1898_. _Fifth +Edition_, _March 1898_. _Sixth Edition_, _1898_. _Seventh Edition_, +_1899_. _Eighth and Cheaper Edition_ (_1s. net_). _Methuen & Co._, +_Ltd._, _August 1910_. _Ninth Edition_, _September 1910_. ‘_The Ballad +of Reading Goal_’ _was published anonymously under the signature of C. 3. +3_. _The author’s name first appeared on the title-page of the Seventh +Edition_. _It was included in the Collected Edition of the author’s +Poems published by Messrs. Methuen in 1908 and 1909_. + + * * * * * + +_Wilde’s Poems were first published in volume form in 1881_, _and were +reprinted four times before the end of 1882_. _A new edition with +additional poems_, _including Ravenna_, _The Sphinx_, _and The Ballad of +Reading Gaol_, _was first published_ (_limited issues on hand-made paper +and Japanese vellum_) _by Methuen & Co. in March 1908_. _A further +edition_ (_making the seventh_) _with some omissions from the issue of +1908_, _but including two new poems_, _was published in September 1909_. +_Eighth Edition_, _November 1909_. _Ninth Edition_, _December 1909_. + + + + +PREFACE + + +IT is thought that a selection from Oscar Wilde’s early verses may be of +interest to a large public at present familiar only with the always +popular _Ballad of Reading Gaol_, also included in this volume. The +poems were first collected by their author when he was twenty-sex years +old, and though never, until recently, well received by the critics, have +survived the test of NINE editions. Readers will be able to make for +themselves the obvious and striking contrasts between these first and +last phases of Oscar Wilde’s literary activity. The intervening period +was devoted almost entirely to dramas, prose, fiction, essays, and +criticism. + + ROBERT ROSS + +REFORM CLUB, + _April_ 5, 1911. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +PREFACE v +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL (_Complete Version_) 1 +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL (_Shorter Version_) 61 +AVE IMPERATRIX 89 +TO MY WIFE (WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS) 100 +MAGDALEN WALKS 102 +THEOCRITUS—A VILLANELLE 106 +SONNETS— + GREECE 108 + PORTIA (TO ELLEN TERRY) 110 + FABIEN DEI FRANCHI (TO HENRY IRVING) 112 + PHÈDRE (TO SARAH BERNHARDT) 114 + ON HEARING THE DIES IRÆ SUNG IN THE 116 + SISTINE CHAPEL + AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA 118 + LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES 120 + ROSES AND RUE 122 + FROM ‘THE GARDEN OF EROS’ 128 + THE HARLOT’S HOUSE 140 + FROM ‘THE BURDEN OF ITYS’ 144 + FLOWER OF LOVE 158 + + + + +NOTE + + +AT the end of the complete text will be found a shorter version based on +the original draft of the poem. This is included for the benefit of +reciters and their audiences who have found the entire poem too long for +declamation. I have tried to obviate a difficulty, without officiously +exercising the ungrateful prerogatives of a literary executor, by falling +back on a text which represents the author’s first scheme for a +poem—never intended of course for recitation. + + ROBERT ROSS + + * * * * * + + IN MEMORIAM + C. T. W. + Sometimes trooper of + The Royal Horse Guards + Obiit H.M. Prison + Reading, Berkshire + July 7th, 1896 + + + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + + I + + HE did not wear his scarlet coat, + For blood and wine are red, + And blood and wine were on his hands + When they found him with the dead, + The poor dead woman whom he loved, + And murdered in her bed. + + He walked amongst the Trial Men + In a suit of shabby grey; + A cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay; + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every drifting cloud that went + With sails of silver by. + + I walked, with other souls in pain, + Within another ring, + And was wondering if the man had done + A great or little thing, + When a voice behind me whispered low, + ‘_That fellow’s got to swing_.’ + + Dear Christ! the very prison walls + Suddenly seemed to reel, + And the sky above my head became + Like a casque of scorching steel; + And, though I was a soul in pain, + My pain I could not feel. + + I only knew what hunted thought + Quickened his step, and why + He looked upon the garish day + With such a wistful eye; + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + Yet each man kills the thing he loves, + By each let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word, + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + Some kill their love when they are young, + And some when they are old; + Some strangle with the hands of Lust, + Some with the hands of Gold: + The kindest use a knife, because + The dead so soon grow cold. + + Some love too little, some too long, + Some sell, and others buy; + Some do the deed with many tears, + And some without a sigh: + For each man kills the thing he loves, + Yet each man does not die. + + He does not die a death of shame + On a day of dark disgrace, + Nor have a noose about his neck, + Nor a cloth upon his face, + Nor drop feet foremost through the floor + Into an empty space. + + He does not sit with silent men + Who watch him night and day; + Who watch him when he tries to weep, + And when he tries to pray; + Who watch him lest himself should rob + The prison of its prey. + + He does not wake at dawn to see + Dread figures throng his room, + The shivering Chaplain robed in white, + The Sheriff stern with gloom, + And the Governor all in shiny black, + With the yellow face of Doom. + + He does not rise in piteous haste + To put on convict-clothes, + While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes + Each new and nerve-twitched pose, + Fingering a watch whose little ticks + Are like horrible hammer-blows. + + He does not know that sickening thirst + That sands one’s throat, before + The hangman with his gardener’s gloves + Slips through the padded door, + And binds one with three leathern thongs, + That the throat may thirst no more. + + He does not bend his head to hear + The Burial Office read, + Nor, while the terror of his soul + Tells him he is not dead, + Cross his own coffin, as he moves + Into the hideous shed. + + He does not stare upon the air + Through a little roof of glass: + He does not pray with lips of clay + For his agony to pass; + Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek + The kiss of Caiaphas. + + II + + SIX weeks our guardsman walked the yard, + In the suit of shabby grey: + His cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay, + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every wandering cloud that trailed + Its ravelled fleeces by. + + He did not wring his hands, as do + Those witless men who dare + To try to rear the changeling Hope + In the cave of black Despair: + He only looked upon the sun, + And drank the morning air. + + He did not wring his hands nor weep, + Nor did he peek or pine, + But he drank the air as though it held + Some healthful anodyne; + With open mouth he drank the sun + As though it had been wine! + + And I and all the souls in pain, + Who tramped the other ring, + Forgot if we ourselves had done + A great or little thing, + And watched with gaze of dull amaze + The man who had to swing. + + And strange it was to see him pass + With a step so light and gay, + And strange it was to see him look + So wistfully at the day, + And strange it was to think that he + Had such a debt to pay. + + For oak and elm have pleasant leaves + That in the springtime shoot: + But grim to see is the gallows-tree, + With its adder-bitten root, + And, green or dry, a man must die + Before it bears its fruit! + + The loftiest place is that seat of grace + For which all worldlings try: + But who would stand in hempen band + Upon a scaffold high, + And through a murderer’s collar take + His last look at the sky? + + It is sweet to dance to violins + When Love and Life are fair: + To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes + Is delicate and rare: + But it is not sweet with nimble feet + To dance upon the air! + + So with curious eyes and sick surmise + We watched him day by day, + And wondered if each one of us + Would end the self-same way, + For none can tell to what red Hell + His sightless soul may stray. + + At last the dead man walked no more + Amongst the Trial Men, + And I knew that he was standing up + In the black dock’s dreadful pen, + And that never would I see his face + In God’s sweet world again. + + Like two doomed ships that pass in storm + We had crossed each other’s way: + But we made no sign, we said no word, + We had no word to say; + For we did not meet in the holy night, + But in the shameful day. + + A prison wall was round us both, + Two outcast men we were: + The world had thrust us from its heart, + And God from out His care: + And the iron gin that waits for Sin + Had caught us in its snare. + + III + + IN Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard, + And the dripping wall is high, + So it was there he took the air + Beneath the leaden sky, + And by each side a Warder walked, + For fear the man might die. + + Or else he sat with those who watched + His anguish night and day; + Who watched him when he rose to weep, + And when he crouched to pray; + Who watched him lest himself should rob + Their scaffold of its prey. + + The Governor was strong upon + The Regulations Act: + The Doctor said that Death was but + A scientific fact: + And twice a day the Chaplain called, + And left a little tract. + + And twice a day he smoked his pipe, + And drank his quart of beer: + His soul was resolute, and held + No hiding-place for fear; + He often said that he was glad + The hangman’s hands were near. + + But why he said so strange a thing + No Warder dared to ask: + For he to whom a watcher’s doom + Is given as his task, + Must set a lock upon his lips, + And make his face a mask. + + Or else he might be moved, and try + To comfort or console: + And what should Human Pity do + Pent up in Murderers’ Hole? + What word of grace in such a place + Could help a brother’s soul? + + With slouch and swing around the ring + We trod the Fools’ Parade! + We did not care: we knew we were + The Devil’s Own Brigade: + And shaven head and feet of lead + Make a merry masquerade. + + We tore the tarry rope to shreds + With blunt and bleeding nails; + We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, + And cleaned the shining rails: + And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, + And clattered with the pails. + + We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, + We turned the dusty drill: + We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, + And sweated on the mill: + But in the heart of every man + Terror was lying still. + + So still it lay that every day + Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: + And we forgot the bitter lot + That waits for fool and knave, + Till once, as we tramped in from work, + We passed an open grave. + + With yawning mouth the yellow hole + Gaped for a living thing; + The very mud cried out for blood + To the thirsty asphalte ring: + And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair + Some prisoner had to swing. + + Right in we went, with soul intent + On Death and Dread and Doom: + The hangman, with his little bag, + Went shuffling through the gloom: + And each man trembled as he crept + Into his numbered tomb. + + That night the empty corridors + Were full of forms of Fear, + And up and down the iron town + Stole feet we could not hear, + And through the bars that hide the stars + White faces seemed to peer. + + He lay as one who lies and dreams + In a pleasant meadow-land, + The watchers watched him as he slept, + And could not understand + How one could sleep so sweet a sleep + With a hangman close at hand. + + But there is no sleep when men must weep + Who never yet have wept: + So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave— + That endless vigil kept, + And through each brain on hands of pain + Another’s terror crept. + + Alas! it is a fearful thing + To feel another’s guilt! + For, right within, the sword of Sin + Pierced to its poisoned hilt, + And as molten lead were the tears we shed + For the blood we had not spilt. + + The Warders with their shoes of felt + Crept by each padlocked door, + And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, + Grey figures on the floor, + And wondered why men knelt to pray + Who never prayed before. + + All through the night we knelt and prayed, + Mad mourners of a corse! + The troubled plumes of midnight were + The plumes upon a hearse: + And bitter wine upon a sponge + Was the savour of Remorse. + + The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, + But never came the day: + And crooked shapes of Terror crouched, + In the corners where we lay: + And each evil sprite that walks by night + Before us seemed to play. + + They glided past, they glided fast, + Like travellers through a mist: + They mocked the moon in a rigadoon + Of delicate turn and twist, + And with formal pace and loathsome grace + The phantoms kept their tryst. + + With mop and mow, we saw them go, + Slim shadows hand in hand: + About, about, in ghostly rout + They trod a saraband: + And the damned grotesques made arabesques, + Like the wind upon the sand! + + With the pirouettes of marionettes, + They tripped on pointed tread: + But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear, + As their grisly masque they led, + And loud they sang, and long they sang, + For they sang to wake the dead. + + ‘Oho!’ they cried, ‘The world is wide, + But fettered limbs go lame! + And once, or twice, to throw the dice + Is a gentlemanly game, + But he does not win who plays with Sin + In the secret House of Shame.’ + + No things of air these antics were, + That frolicked with such glee: + To men whose lives were held in gyves, + And whose feet might not go free, + Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, + Most terrible to see. + + Around, around, they waltzed and wound; + Some wheeled in smirking pairs; + With the mincing step of a demirep + Some sidled up the stairs: + And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, + Each helped us at our prayers. + + The morning wind began to moan, + But still the night went on: + Through its giant loom the web of gloom + Crept till each thread was spun: + And, as we prayed, we grew afraid + Of the Justice of the Sun. + + The moaning wind went wandering round + The weeping prison-wall: + Till like a wheel of turning steel + We felt the minutes crawl: + O moaning wind! what had we done + To have such a seneschal? + + At last I saw the shadowed bars, + Like a lattice wrought in lead, + Move right across the whitewashed wall + That faced my three-plank bed, + And I knew that somewhere in the world + God’s dreadful dawn was red. + + At six o’clock we cleaned our cells, + At seven all was still, + But the sough and swing of a mighty wing + The prison seemed to fill, + For the Lord of Death with icy breath + Had entered in to kill. + + He did not pass in purple pomp, + Nor ride a moon-white steed. + Three yards of cord and a sliding board + Are all the gallows’ need: + So with rope of shame the Herald came + To do the secret deed. + + We were as men who through a fen + Of filthy darkness grope: + We did not dare to breathe a prayer, + Or to give our anguish scope: + Something was dead in each of us, + And what was dead was Hope. + + For Man’s grim Justice goes its way, + And will not swerve aside: + It slays the weak, it slays the strong, + It has a deadly stride: + With iron heel it slays the strong, + The monstrous parricide! + + We waited for the stroke of eight: + Each tongue was thick with thirst: + For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate + That makes a man accursed, + And Fate will use a running noose + For the best man and the worst. + + We had no other thing to do, + Save to wait for the sign to come: + So, like things of stone in a valley lone, + Quiet we sat and dumb: + But each man’s heart beat thick and quick, + Like a madman on a drum! + + With sudden shock the prison-clock + Smote on the shivering air, + And from all the gaol rose up a wail + Of impotent despair, + Like the sound that frightened marshes hear + From some leper in his lair. + + And as one sees most fearful things + In the crystal of a dream, + We saw the greasy hempen rope + Hooked to the blackened beam, + And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare + Strangled into a scream. + + And all the woe that moved him so + That he gave that bitter cry, + And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, + None knew so well as I: + For he who lives more lives than one + More deaths than one must die. + + IV + + THERE is no chapel on the day + On which they hang a man: + The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick, + Or his face is far too wan, + Or there is that written in his eyes + Which none should look upon. + + So they kept us close till nigh on noon, + And then they rang the bell, + And the Warders with their jingling keys + Opened each listening cell, + And down the iron stair we tramped, + Each from his separate Hell. + + Out into God’s sweet air we went, + But not in wonted way, + For this man’s face was white with fear, + And that man’s face was grey, + And I never saw sad men who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw sad men who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + We prisoners called the sky, + And at every careless cloud that passed + In happy freedom by. + + But there were those amongst us all + Who walked with downcast head, + And knew that, had each got his due, + They should have died instead: + He had but killed a thing that lived, + Whilst they had killed the dead. + + For he who sins a second time + Wakes a dead soul to pain, + And draws it from its spotted shroud, + And makes it bleed again, + And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, + And makes it bleed in vain! + + Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb + With crooked arrows starred, + Silently we went round and round + The slippery asphalte yard; + Silently we went round and round, + And no man spoke a word. + + Silently we went round and round, + And through each hollow mind + The Memory of dreadful things + Rushed like a dreadful wind, + And Horror stalked before each man, + And Terror crept behind. + + The Warders strutted up and down, + And kept their herd of brutes, + Their uniforms were spick and span, + And they wore their Sunday suits, + But we knew the work they had been at, + By the quicklime on their boots. + + For where a grave had opened wide, + There was no grave at all: + Only a stretch of mud and sand + By the hideous prison-wall, + And a little heap of burning lime, + That the man should have his pall. + + For he has a pall, this wretched man, + Such as few men can claim: + Deep down below a prison-yard, + Naked for greater shame, + He lies, with fetters on each foot, + Wrapt in a sheet of flame! + + And all the while the burning lime + Eats flesh and bone away, + It eats the brittle bone by night, + And the soft flesh by day, + It eats the flesh and bone by turns, + But it eats the heart alway. + + For three long years they will not sow + Or root or seedling there: + For three long years the unblessed spot + Will sterile be and bare, + And look upon the wondering sky + With unreproachful stare. + + They think a murderer’s heart would taint + Each simple seed they sow. + It is not true! God’s kindly earth + Is kindlier than men know, + And the red rose would but blow more red, + The white rose whiter blow. + + Out of his mouth a red, red rose! + Out of his heart a white! + For who can say by what strange way, + Christ brings His will to light, + Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore + Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight? + + But neither milk-white rose nor red + May bloom in prison-air; + The shard, the pebble, and the flint, + Are what they give us there: + For flowers have been known to heal + A common man’s despair. + + So never will wine-red rose or white, + Petal by petal, fall + On that stretch of mud and sand that lies + By the hideous prison-wall, + To tell the men who tramp the yard + That God’s Son died for all. + + Yet though the hideous prison-wall + Still hems him round and round, + And a spirit may not walk by night + That is with fetters bound, + And a spirit may but weep that lies + In such unholy ground, + + He is at peace—this wretched man— + At peace, or will be soon: + There is no thing to make him mad, + Nor does Terror walk at noon, + For the lampless Earth in which he lies + Has neither Sun nor Moon. + + They hanged him as a beast is hanged: + They did not even toll + A requiem that might have brought + Rest to his startled soul, + But hurriedly they took him out, + And hid him in a hole. + + They stripped him of his canvas clothes, + And gave him to the flies: + They mocked the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes: + And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud + In which their convict lies. + + The Chaplain would not kneel to pray + By his dishonoured grave: + Nor mark it with that blessed Cross + That Christ for sinners gave, + Because the man was one of those + Whom Christ came down to save. + + Yet all is well; he has but passed + To Life’s appointed bourne: + And alien tears will fill for him + Pity’s long-broken urn, + For his mourners will be outcast men, + And outcasts always mourn + + V + + I KNOW not whether Laws be right, + Or whether Laws be wrong; + All that we know who lie in gaol + Is that the wall is strong; + And that each day is like a year, + A year whose days are long. + + But this I know, that every Law + That men have made for Man, + Since first Man took his brother’s life, + And the sad world began, + But straws the wheat and saves the chaff + With a most evil fan. + + This too I know—and wise it were + If each could know the same— + That every prison that men build + Is built with bricks of shame, + And bound with bars lest Christ should see + How men their brothers maim. + + With bars they blur the gracious moon, + And blind the goodly sun: + And they do well to hide their Hell, + For in it things are done + That Son of God nor son of Man + Ever should look upon! + + The vilest deeds like poison weeds, + Bloom well in prison-air; + It is only what is good in Man + That wastes and withers there: + Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, + And the Warder is Despair. + + For they starve the little frightened child + Till it weeps both night and day: + And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, + And gibe the old and grey, + And some grow mad, and all grow bad, + And none a word may say. + + Each narrow cell in which we dwell + Is a foul and dark latrine, + And the fetid breath of living Death + Chokes up each grated screen, + And all, but Lust, is turned to dust + In Humanity’s machine. + + The brackish water that we drink + Creeps with a loathsome slime, + And the bitter bread they weigh in scales + Is full of chalk and lime, + And Sleep will not lie down, but walks + Wild-eyed, and cries to Time. + + But though lean Hunger and green Thirst + Like asp with adder fight, + We have little care of prison fare, + For what chills and kills outright + Is that every stone one lifts by day + Becomes one’s heart by night. + + With midnight always in one’s heart, + And twilight in one’s cell, + We turn the crank, or tear the rope, + Each in his separate Hell, + And the silence is more awful far + Than the sound of a brazen bell. + + And never a human voice comes near + To speak a gentle word: + And the eye that watches through the door + Is pitiless and hard: + And by all forgot, we rot and rot, + With soul and body marred. + + And thus we rust Life’s iron chain + Degraded and alone: + And some men curse, and some men weep, + And some men make no moan: + But God’s eternal Laws are kind + And break the heart of stone. + + And every human heart that breaks, + In prison-cell or yard, + Is as that broken box that gave + Its treasure to the Lord, + And filled the unclean leper’s house + With the scent of costliest nard. + + Ah! happy they whose hearts can break + And peace of pardon win! + How else may man make straight his plan + And cleanse his soul from Sin? + How else but through a broken heart + May Lord Christ enter in? + + And he of the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes, + Waits for the holy hands that took + The Thief to Paradise; + And a broken and a contrite heart + The Lord will not despise. + + The man in red who reads the Law + Gave him three weeks of life, + Three little weeks in which to heal + His soul of his soul’s strife, + And cleanse from every blot of blood + The hand that held the knife. + + And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, + The hand that held the steel: + For only blood can wipe out blood, + And only tears can heal: + And the crimson stain that was of Cain + Became Christ’s snow-white seal. + + VI + + IN Reading gaol by Reading town + There is a pit of shame, + And in it lies a wretched man + Eaten by teeth of flame, + In a burning winding-sheet he lies, + And his grave has got no name. + + And there, till Christ call forth the dead, + In silence let him lie: + No need to waste the foolish tear, + Or heave the windy sigh: + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + And all men kill the thing they love, + By all let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word, + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + + +APPENDIX +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + + A VERSION BASED ON THE ORIGINAL DRAFT OF THE POEM + + I + + HE did not wear his scarlet coat, + For blood and wine are red, + And blood and wine were on his hands + When they found him with the dead, + The poor dead woman whom he loved, + And murdered in her bed. + + He walked amongst the Trial Men + In a suit of shabby grey; + A cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay; + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every drifting cloud that went + With sails of silver by. + + I walked, with other souls in pain, + Within another ring, + And was wondering if the man had done + A great or little thing, + When a voice behind me whispered low, + ‘_That fellow’s got to swing_.’ + + Dear Christ! the very prison walls + Suddenly seemed to reel, + And the sky above my head became + Like a casque of scorching steel; + And, though I was a soul in pain, + My pain I could not feel. + + I only knew what hunted thought + Quickened his step, and why + He looked upon the garish day + With such a wistful eye; + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + Yet each man kills the thing he loves, + By each let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word, + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + Some kill their love when they are young, + And some when they are old; + Some strangle with the hands of Lust, + Some with the hands of Gold: + The kindest use a knife, because + The dead so soon grow cold. + + Some love too little, some too long, + Some sell, and others buy; + Some do the deed with many tears, + And some without a sigh: + For each man kills the thing he loves, + Yet each man does not die. + + He does not die a death of shame + On a day of dark disgrace, + Nor have a noose about his neck, + Nor a cloth upon his face, + Nor drop feet foremost through the floor + Into an empty space. + + He does not wake at dawn to see + Dread figures throng his room, + The shivering Chaplain robed in white, + The Sheriff stern with gloom, + And the Governor all in shiny black, + With the yellow face of Doom. + + He does not rise in piteous haste + To put on convict-clothes, + While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes + Each new and nerve-twitched pose, + Fingering a watch whose little ticks + Are like horrible hammer-blows. + + He does not know that sickening thirst + That sands one’s throat, before + The hangman with his gardener’s gloves + Slips through the padded door, + And binds one with three leathern thongs, + That the throat may thirst no more. + + He does not bend his head to hear + The Burial Office read, + Nor, while the terror of his soul + Tells him he is not dead, + Cross his own coffin, as he moves + Into the hideous shed. + + He does not stare upon the air + Through a little roof of glass: + He does not pray with lips of clay + For his agony to pass; + Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek + The kiss of Caiaphas. + + II + + SIX weeks our guardsman walked the yard, + In the suit of shabby grey: + His cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay, + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + He did not wring his hands nor weep, + Nor did he peek or pine, + But he drank the air as though it held + Some healthful anodyne; + With open mouth he drank the sun + As though it had been wine! + + And I and all the souls in pain, + Who tramped the other ring, + Forgot if we ourselves had done + A great or little thing, + And watched with gaze of dull amaze + The man who had to swing. + + So with curious eyes and sick surmise + We watched him day by day, + And wondered if each one of us + Would end the self-same way, + For none can tell to what red Hell + His sightless soul may stray. + + At last the dead man walked no more + Amongst the Trial Men, + And I knew that he was standing up + In the black dock’s dreadful pen, + And that never would I see his face + In God’s sweet world again. + + Like two doomed ships that pass in storm + We had crossed each other’s way: + But we made no sign, we said no word, + We had no word to say; + For we did not meet in the holy night, + But in the shameful day. + + A prison wall was round us both, + Two outcast men we were: + The world had thrust us from its heart, + And God from out His care: + And the iron gin that waits for Sin + Had caught us in its snare. + + III + + IN Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard, + And the dripping wall is high, + So it was there he took the air + Beneath the leaden sky, + And by each side a Warder walked, + For fear the man might die. + + Or else he sat with those who watched + His anguish night and day; + Who watched him when he rose to weep, + And when he crouched to pray; + Who watched him lest himself should rob + Their scaffold of its prey. + + And twice a day he smoked his pipe, + And drank his quart of beer: + His soul was resolute, and held + No hiding-place for fear; + He often said that he was glad + The hangman’s hands were near. + + But why he said so strange a thing + No Warder dared to ask: + For he to whom a watcher’s doom + Is given as his task, + Must set a lock upon his lips, + And make his face a mask. + + With slouch and swing around the ring + We trod the Fools’ Parade! + We did not care: we knew we were + The Devil’s Own Brigade: + And shaven head and feet of lead + Make a merry masquerade. + + We tore the tarry rope to shreds + With blunt and bleeding nails; + We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, + And cleaned the shining rails: + And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, + And clattered with the pails. + + We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, + We turned the dusty drill: + We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, + And sweated on the mill: + But in the heart of every man + Terror was lying still. + + So still it lay that every day + Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: + And we forgot the bitter lot + That waits for fool and knave, + Till once, as we tramped in from work, + We passed an open grave. + + Right in we went, with soul intent + On Death and Dread and Doom: + The hangman, with his little bag, + Went shuffling through the gloom: + And each man trembled as he crept + Into his numbered tomb. + + That night the empty corridors + Were full of forms of Fear, + And up and down the iron town + Stole feet we could not hear, + And through the bars that hide the stars + White faces seemed to peer. + + But there is no sleep when men must weep + Who never yet have wept: + So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave— + That endless vigil kept, + And through each brain on hands of pain + Another’s terror crept. + + Alas! it is a fearful thing + To feel another’s guilt! + For, right within, the sword of Sin + Pierced to its poisoned hilt, + And as molten lead were the tears we shed + For the blood we had not spilt. + + The Warders with their shoes of felt + Crept by each padlocked door, + And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, + Grey figures on the floor, + And wondered why men knelt to pray + Who never prayed before. + + The morning wind began to moan, + But still the night went on: + Through its giant loom the web of gloom + Crept till each thread was spun: + And, as we prayed, we grew afraid + Of the Justice of the Sun. + + At last I saw the shadowed bars, + Like a lattice wrought in lead, + Move right across the whitewashed wall + That faced my three-plank bed, + And I knew that somewhere in the world + God’s dreadful dawn was red. + + At six o’clock we cleaned our cells, + At seven all was still, + But the sough and swing of a mighty wing + The prison seemed to fill, + For the Lord of Death with icy breath + Had entered in to kill. + + He did not pass in purple pomp, + Nor ride a moon-white steed. + Three yards of cord and a sliding board + Are all the gallows’ need: + So with rope of shame the Herald came + To do the secret deed. + + We waited for the stroke of eight: + Each tongue was thick with thirst: + For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate + That makes a man accursed, + And Fate will use a running noose + For the best man and the worst. + + We had no other thing to do, + Save to wait for the sign to come: + So, like things of stone in a valley lone, + Quiet we sat and dumb: + But each man’s heart beat thick and quick, + Like a madman on a drum! + + With sudden shock the prison-clock + Smote on the shivering air, + And from all the gaol rose up a wail + Of impotent despair, + Like the sound that frightened marshes hear + From some leper in his lair. + + And as one sees most fearful things + In the crystal of a dream, + We saw the greasy hempen rope + Hooked to the blackened beam, + And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare + Strangled into a scream. + + And all the woe that moved him so + That he gave that bitter cry, + And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, + None knew so well as I: + For he who lives more lives than one + More deaths than one must die. + + IV + + THERE is no chapel on the day + On which they hang a man: + The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick, + Or his face is far too wan, + Or there is that written in his eyes + Which none should look upon. + + So they kept us close till nigh on noon, + And then they rang the bell, + And the Warders with their jingling keys + Opened each listening cell, + And down the iron stair we tramped, + Each from his separate Hell. + + Out into God’s sweet air we went, + But not in wonted way, + For this man’s face was white with fear, + And that man’s face was grey, + And I never saw sad men who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw sad men who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + We prisoners called the sky, + And at every careless cloud that passed + In happy freedom by. + + But there were those amongst us all + Who walked with downcast head, + And knew that, had each got his due, + They should have died instead: + He had but killed a thing that lived, + Whilst they had killed the dead. + + For he who sins a second time + Wakes a dead soul to pain, + And draws it from its spotted shroud, + And makes it bleed again, + And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, + And makes it bleed in vain! + + Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb + With crooked arrows starred, + Silently we went round and round + The slippery asphalte yard; + Silently we went round and round, + And no man spoke a word. + + Silently we went round and round, + And through each hollow mind + The Memory of dreadful things + Rushed like a dreadful wind, + And Horror stalked before each man, + And Terror crept behind. + + The Warders strutted up and down, + And kept their herd of brutes, + Their uniforms were spick and span, + And they wore their Sunday suits, + But we knew the work they had been at, + By the quicklime on their boots. + + For where a grave had opened wide, + There was no grave at all: + Only a stretch of mud and sand + By the hideous prison-wall, + And a little heap of burning lime, + That the man should have his pall. + + For he has a pall, this wretched man, + Such as few men can claim: + Deep down below a prison-yard, + Naked for greater shame, + He lies, with fetters on each foot, + Wrapt in a sheet of flame! + + For three long years they will not sow + Or root or seedling there: + For three long years the unblessed spot + Will sterile be and bare, + And look upon the wondering sky + With unreproachful stare. + + They think a murderer’s heart would taint + Each simple seed they sow. + It is not true! God’s kindly earth + Is kindlier than men know, + And the red rose would but blow more red, + The white rose whiter blow. + + Out of his mouth a red, red rose! + Out of his heart a white! + For who can say by what strange way, + Christ brings His will to light, + Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore + Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight? + + But neither milk-white rose nor red + May bloom in prison-air; + The shard, the pebble, and the flint, + Are what they give us there: + For flowers have been known to heal + A common man’s despair. + + So never will wine-red rose or white, + Petal by petal, fall + On that stretch of mud and sand that lies + By the hideous prison-wall, + To tell the men who tramp the yard + That God’s Son died for all. + + He is at peace—this wretched man— + At peace, or will be soon: + There is no thing to make him mad, + Nor does Terror walk at noon, + For the lampless Earth in which he lies + Has neither Sun nor Moon. + + The Chaplain would not kneel to pray + By his dishonoured grave: + Nor mark it with that blessed Cross + That Christ for sinners gave, + Because the man was one of those + Whom Christ came down to save. + + Yet all is well; he has but passed + To Life’s appointed bourne: + And alien tears will fill for him + Pity’s long-broken urn, + For his mourners will be outcast men, + And outcasts always mourn. + + + + +POEMS +AVE IMPERATRIX + + + SET in this stormy Northern sea, + Queen of these restless fields of tide, + England! what shall men say of thee, + Before whose feet the worlds divide? + + The earth, a brittle globe of glass, + Lies in the hollow of thy hand, + And through its heart of crystal pass, + Like shadows through a twilight land, + + The spears of crimson-suited war, + The long white-crested waves of fight, + And all the deadly fires which are + The torches of the lords of Night. + + The yellow leopards, strained and lean, + The treacherous Russian knows so well, + With gaping blackened jaws are seen + Leap through the hail of screaming shell. + + The strong sea-lion of England’s wars + Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, + To battle with the storm that mars + The stars of England’s chivalry. + + The brazen-throated clarion blows + Across the Pathan’s reedy fen, + And the high steeps of Indian snows + Shake to the tread of armèd men. + + And many an Afghan chief, who lies + Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, + Clutches his sword in fierce surmise + When on the mountain-side he sees + + The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes + To tell how he hath heard afar + The measured roll of English drums + Beat at the gates of Kandahar. + + For southern wind and east wind meet + Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, + England with bare and bloody feet + Climbs the steep road of wide empire. + + O lonely Himalayan height, + Grey pillar of the Indian sky, + Where saw’st thou last in clanging flight + Our wingèd dogs of Victory? + + The almond-groves of Samarcand, + Bokhara, where red lilies blow, + And Oxus, by whose yellow sand + The grave white-turbaned merchants go: + + And on from thence to Ispahan, + The gilded garden of the sun, + Whence the long dusty caravan + Brings cedar wood and vermilion; + + And that dread city of Cabool + Set at the mountain’s scarpèd feet, + Whose marble tanks are ever full + With water for the noonday heat: + + Where through the narrow straight Bazaar + A little maid Circassian + Is led, a present from the Czar + Unto some old and bearded Khan,— + + Here have our wild war-eagles flown, + And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; + But the sad dove, that sits alone + In England—she hath no delight. + + In vain the laughing girl will lean + To greet her love with love-lit eyes: + Down in some treacherous black ravine, + Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. + + And many a moon and sun will see + The lingering wistful children wait + To climb upon their father’s knee; + And in each house made desolate + + Pale women who have lost their lord + Will kiss the relics of the slain— + Some tarnished epaulette—some sword— + Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain. + + For not in quiet English fields + Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, + Where we might deck their broken shields + With all the flowers the dead love best. + + For some are by the Delhi walls, + And many in the Afghan land, + And many where the Ganges falls + Through seven mouths of shifting sand. + + And some in Russian waters lie, + And others in the seas which are + The portals to the East, or by + The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. + + O wandering graves! O restless sleep! + O silence of the sunless day! + O still ravine! O stormy deep! + Give up your prey! Give up your prey! + + And thou whose wounds are never healed, + Whose weary race is never won, + O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield + For every inch of ground a son? + + Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head, + Change thy glad song to song of pain; + Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, + And will not yield them back again. + + Wave and wild wind and foreign shore + Possess the flower of English land— + Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more, + Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. + + What profit now that we have bound + The whole round world with nets of gold, + If hidden in our heart is found + The care that groweth never old? + + What profit that our galleys ride, + Pine-forest-like, on every main? + Ruin and wreck are at our side, + Grim warders of the House of Pain. + + Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet? + Where is our English chivalry? + Wild grasses are their burial-sheet, + And sobbing waves their threnody. + + O loved ones lying far away, + What word of love can dead lips send! + O wasted dust! O senseless clay! + Is this the end! is this the end! + + Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead + To vex their solemn slumber so; + Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head, + Up the steep road must England go, + + Yet when this fiery web is spun, + Her watchmen shall descry from far + The young Republic like a sun + Rise from these crimson seas of war. + + + + +TO MY WIFE +WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS + + + I CAN write no stately proem + As a prelude to my lay; + From a poet to a poem + I would dare to say. + + For if of these fallen petals + One to you seem fair, + Love will waft it till it settles + On your hair. + + And when wind and winter harden + All the loveless land, + It will whisper of the garden, + You will understand. + + + + +MAGDALEN WALKS + + +[_After gaining the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek at Trinity College_, +_Dublin_, _in 1874_, _Oscar Wilde proceeded to Oxford_, _where he +obtained a demyship at Magdalen College_. _He is the only real poet on +the books of that institution_.] + + THE little white clouds are racing over the sky, + And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March, + The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch + Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by. + + A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze, + The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth, + The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth, + Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees. + + And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring, + And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar, + And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire + Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring. + + And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love + Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green, + And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen + Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove. + + See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there, + Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew, + And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue! + The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air. + + + + +THEOCRITUS +A VILLANELLE + + + O SINGER of Persephone! + In the dim meadows desolate + Dost thou remember Sicily? + + Still through the ivy flits the bee + Where Amaryllis lies in state; + O Singer of Persephone! + + Simætha calls on Hecate + And hears the wild dogs at the gate; + Dost thou remember Sicily? + + Still by the light and laughing sea + Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate; + O Singer of Persephone! + + And still in boyish rivalry + Young Daphnis challenges his mate; + Dost thou remember Sicily? + + Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee, + For thee the jocund shepherds wait; + O Singer of Persephone! + Dost thou remember Sicily? + + + + +GREECE + + + THE sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky + Burned like a heated opal through the air; + We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair + For the blue lands that to the eastward lie. + From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye + Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek, + Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak, + And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady. + The flapping of the sail against the mast, + The ripple of the water on the side, + The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern, + The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn, + And a red sun upon the seas to ride, + I stood upon the soil of Greece at last! + +KATAKOLO. + + + + +PORTIA +TO ELLEN TERRY + + + (_Written at the Lyceum Theatre_) + + I MARVEL not Bassanio was so bold + To peril all he had upon the lead, + Or that proud Aragon bent low his head + Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold: + For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold + Which is more golden than the golden sun + No woman Veronesé looked upon + Was half so fair as thou whom I behold. + Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield + The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned, + And would not let the laws of Venice yield + Antonio’s heart to that accursèd Jew— + O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due: + I think I will not quarrel with the Bond. + + + + +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 made + For more august creation! frenzied Lear + Should at thy bidding wander on the heath + With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo + For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear + Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its sheath— + Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow! + + + + +PHÈDRE +TO SARAH BERNHARDT + + + HOW vain and dull this common world must seem + To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked + At Florence with Mirandola, or walked + Through the cool olives of the Academe: + Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream + For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played + With the white girls in that Phæacian glade + Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream. + + Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay + Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again + Back to this common world so dull and vain, + For thou wert weary of the sunless day, + The heavy fields of scentless asphodel, + The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell. + + + + +SONNET + + + ON HEARING THE DIES IRÆ SUNG IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL + + NAY, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring, + Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove, + Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love + Than terrors of red flame and thundering. + The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring: + A bird at evening flying to its nest + Tells me of One who had no place of rest: + I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing. + Come rather on some autumn afternoon, + When red and brown are burnished on the leaves, + And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song, + Come when the splendid fulness of the moon + Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves, + And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long. + + + + +AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA + + + WAS this His coming! I had hoped to see + A scene of wondrous glory, as was told + Of some great God who in a rain of gold + Broke open bars and fell on Danae: + Or a dread vision as when Semele + Sickening for love and unappeased desire + Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire + Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly: + With such glad dreams I sought this holy place, + And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand + Before 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. + + + + +LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES + + + ALBEIT nurtured in democracy, + And liking best that state republican + Where every man is Kinglike and no man + Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see, + Spite of this modern fret for Liberty, + Better the rule of One, whom all obey, + Than to let clamorous demagogues betray + Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy. + Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane + Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street + For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign + Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade, + Save Treason and the dagger of her trade, + Or Murder with his silent bloody feet. + + + + +ROSES AND RUE + + + (To L. L.) + + COULD we dig up this long-buried treasure, + Were it worth the pleasure, + We never could learn love’s song, + We are parted too long. + + Could the passionate past that is fled + Call back its dead, + Could we live it all over again, + Were it worth the pain! + + I remember we used to meet + By an ivied seat, + And you warbled each pretty word + With the air of a bird; + + And your voice had a quaver in it, + Just like a linnet, + And shook, as the blackbird’s throat + With its last big note; + + And your eyes, they were green and grey + Like an April day, + But lit into amethyst + When I stooped and kissed; + + And your mouth, it would never smile + For a long, long while, + Then it rippled all over with laughter + Five minutes after. + + You were always afraid of a shower, + Just like a flower: + I remember you started and ran + When the rain began. + + I remember I never could catch you, + For no one could match you, + You had wonderful, luminous, fleet, + Little wings to your feet. + + I remember your hair—did I tie it? + For it always ran riot— + Like a tangled sunbeam of gold: + These things are old. + + I remember so well the room, + And the lilac bloom + That beat at the dripping pane + In the warm June rain; + + And the colour of your gown, + It was amber-brown, + And two yellow satin bows + From your shoulders rose. + + And the handkerchief of French lace + Which you held to your face— + Had a small tear left a stain? + Or was it the rain? + + On your hand as it waved adieu + There were veins of blue; + In your voice as it said good-bye + Was a petulant cry, + + ‘You have only wasted your life.’ + (Ah, that was the knife!) + When I rushed through the garden gate + It was all too late. + + Could we live it over again, + Were it worth the pain, + Could the passionate past that is fled + Call back its dead! + + Well, if my heart must break, + Dear love, for your sake, + It will break in music, I know, + Poets’ hearts break so. + + But strange that I was not told + That the brain can hold + In a tiny ivory cell + God’s heaven and hell. + + + + +FROM ‘THE GARDEN OF EROS’ + + +[_In this poem the author laments the growth of materialism in the +nineteenth century_. _He hails Keats and Shelley and some of the poets +and artists who were his contemporaries_, _although his seniors_, _as the +torch-bearers of the intellectual life_. _Among these are Swinburne_, +_William Morris_, _Rossetti_, _and Brune-Jones_.] + + NAY, when Keats died the Muses still had left + One silver voice to sing his threnody, {128} + But ah! too soon of it we were bereft + When on that riven night and stormy sea + Panthea claimed her singer as her own, + And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone, + + Save for that fiery heart, that morning star {129} + Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye + Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war + The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy + Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring + The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing, + + And he hath been with thee at Thessaly, + And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot + In passionless and fierce virginity + Hunting the tuskèd boar, his honied lute + Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill, + And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still. + + And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine, + And sung the Galilæan’s requiem, + That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine + He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him + Have found their last, most ardent worshipper, + And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror. + + Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still, + It is not quenched the torch of poesy, + The star that shook above the Eastern hill + Holds unassailed its argent armoury + From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight— + O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night, + + Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child, + Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed, + With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled + The weary soul of man in troublous need, + And from the far and flowerless fields of ice + Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise. + + We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride, + Aslaug and Olafson we know them all, + How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died, + And what enchantment held the king in thrall + When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers + That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours, + + Long listless summer hours when the noon + Being enamoured of a damask rose + Forgets to journey westward, till the moon + The pale usurper of its tribute grows + From a thin sickle to a silver shield + And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field + + Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight, + At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come + Almost before the blackbird finds a mate + And overstay the swallow, and the hum + Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves, + Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves, + + And through their unreal woes and mimic pain + Wept for myself, and so was purified, + And in their simple mirth grew glad again; + For as I sailed upon that pictured tide + The strength and splendour of the storm was mine + Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine; + + The little laugh of water falling down + Is not so musical, the clammy gold + Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town + Has less of sweetness in it, and the old + Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady + Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony. + + Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile! + Although the cheating merchants of the mart + With iron roads profane our lovely isle, + And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art, + Ay! though the crowded factories beget + The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet! + + For One at least there is,—He bears his name + From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—{136} + Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame + To light thine altar; He {137} too loves thee well, + Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare, + And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair, + + Loves thee so well, that all the World for him + A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear, + And Sorrow take a purple diadem, + Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair + Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be + Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery + + Which Painters hold, and such the heritage + This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess, + Being a better mirror of his age + In all his pity, love, and weariness, + Than those who can but copy common things, + And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings. + + But they are few, and all romance has flown, + And men can prophesy about the sun, + And lecture on his arrows—how, alone, + Through a waste void the soulless atoms run, + How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled, + And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head. + + + + +THE HARLOT’S HOUSE + + + WE caught the tread of dancing feet, + We loitered down the moonlit street, + And stopped beneath the harlot’s house. + + Inside, above the din and fray, + We heard the loud musicians play + The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss. + + Like strange mechanical grotesques, + Making fantastic arabesques, + The shadows raced across the blind. + + We watched the ghostly dancers spin + To sound of horn and violin, + Like black leaves wheeling in the wind. + + Like wire-pulled automatons, + Slim silhouetted skeletons + Went sidling through the slow quadrille, + + Then took each other by the hand, + And danced a stately saraband; + Their laughter echoed thin and shrill. + + Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed + A phantom lover to her breast, + Sometimes they seemed to try to sing. + + Sometimes a horrible marionette + Came out, and smoked its cigarette + Upon the steps like a live thing. + + Then, turning to my love, I said, + ‘The dead are dancing with the dead, + The dust is whirling with the dust.’ + + But she—she heard the violin, + And left my side, and entered in: + Love passed into the house of lust. + + Then suddenly the tune went false, + The dancers wearied of the waltz, + The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl. + + And down the long and silent street, + The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet, + Crept like a frightened girl. + + + + +FROM ‘THE BURDEN OF ITYS’ + + + THIS English Thames is holier far than Rome, + Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea + Breaking across the woodland, with the foam + Of meadow-sweet and white anemone + To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there + Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear! + + Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take + Yon creamy lily for their pavilion + Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake + A lazy pike lies basking in the sun, + His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old + Bishop in _partibus_! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold. + + The wind the restless prisoner of the trees + Does well for Palæstrina, one would say + The mighty master’s hands were on the keys + Of the Maria organ, which they play + When early on some sapphire Easter morn + In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne + + From his dark House out to the Balcony + Above the bronze gates and the crowded square, + Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy + To toss their silver lances in the air, + And stretching out weak hands to East and West + In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest. + + Is not yon lingering orange after-glow + That stays to vex the moon more fair than all + Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago + I knelt before some crimson Cardinal + Who bare the Host across the Esquiline, + And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine. + + The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous + With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring + Through this cool evening than the odorous + Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing, + When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine, + And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine. + + Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the Mass + Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird + Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass + I see that throbbing throat which once I heard + On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady, + Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea. + + Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves + At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe, + And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves + Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe + To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait + Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate. + + And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas, + And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay, + And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees + That round and round the linden blossoms play; + And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall, + And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall, + + And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring + While the last violet loiters by the well, + And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing + The song of Linus through a sunny dell + Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold + And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold. + + * * * * * + + It was a dream, the glade is tenantless, + No soft Ionian laughter moves the air, + The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness, + And from the copse left desolate and bare + Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry, + Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody + + So sad, that one might think a human heart + Brake in each separate note, a quality + Which music sometimes has, being the Art + Which is most nigh to tears and memory; + Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear? + Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here, + + Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade, + No woven web of bloody heraldries, + But mossy dells for roving comrades made, + Warm valleys where the tired student lies + With half-shut book, and many a winding walk + Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk. + + The harmless rabbit gambols with its young + Across the trampled towing-path, where late + A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng + Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight; + The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads, + Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds + + Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out + Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock + Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout + Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock, + And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill, + And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill. + + The heron passes homeward to the mere, + The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees, + Gold world by world the silent stars appear, + And like a blossom blown before the breeze + A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky, + Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody. + + She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed, + She knows Endymion is not far away; + ’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed + Which has no message of its own to play, + So pipes another’s bidding, it is I, + Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery. + + Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill + About the sombre woodland seems to cling + Dying in music, else the air is still, + So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing + Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell + Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell. + + And far away across the lengthening wold, + Across the willowy flats and thickets brown, + Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold + Marks the long High Street of the little town, + And warns me to return; I must not wait, + Hark! ’t is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate. + + + + +FLOWER OF LOVE + + + SWEET, I blame you not, for mine the fault + was, had I not been made of common clay + I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed + yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day. + + From the wildness of my wasted passion I had + struck a better, clearer song, + Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled + with some Hydra-headed wrong. + + Had my lips been smitten into music by the + kisses that but made them bleed, + You had walked with Bice and the angels on + that verdant and enamelled mead. + + I had trod the road which Dante treading saw + the suns of seven circles shine, + Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, + as they opened to the Florentine. + + And the mighty nations would have crowned + me, who am crownless now and without name, + And some orient dawn had found me kneeling + on the threshold of the House of Fame. + + I had sat within that marble circle where the + oldest bard is as the young, + And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the + lyre’s strings are ever strung. + + Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out + the poppy-seeded wine, + With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, + clasped the hand of noble love in mine. + + And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms + brush the burnished bosom of the dove, + Two young lovers lying in an orchard would + have read the story of our love; + + Would have read the legend of my passion, + known the bitter secret of my heart, + Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as + we two are fated now to part. + + For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by + the cankerworm of truth, + And no hand can gather up the fallen withered + petals of the rose of youth. + + Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! + what else had I a boy to do,— + For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the + silent-footed years pursue. + + Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and + when once the storm of youth is past, + Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death + the silent pilot comes at last. + + And within the grave there is no pleasure, + for the blindworm battens on the root, + And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree + of Passion bears no fruit. + + Ah! what else had I to do but love you? + God’s own mother was less dear to me, + And less dear the Cytheræan rising like an + argent lily from the sea. + + I have made my choice, have lived my + poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days, + I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better + than the poet’s crown of bays. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{128} Shelley. + +{129} Swinburne. + +{136} Rossetti. + +{137} Burne-Jones. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS OF OSCAR WILDE*** + + +******* This file should be named 1141-0.txt or 1141-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/1/4/1141 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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