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diff --git a/old/spoow10.txt b/old/spoow10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a22583b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/spoow10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2514 @@ +**The Project Gutenberg Etext of Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde** +#17 in our series by Oscar Wilde + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde + + + + +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 + + +The Ballad Of Reading Gaol +Ave Imperatrix +To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems +Magdalen Walks +Theocritus - A Villanelle +Greece +Portia +Fabien Dei Franchi +Phedre +Sonnet On Hearing The Dies Irae Sung In The Sistine Chapel +Ave Maria Gratia Plena +Libertatis Sacra Fames +Roses And Rue +From 'The Garden Of Eros' +The Harlot's House +From 'The Burden Of Itys' +Flower of Love + + + +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 + + + +Poem: The Ballad Of Reading Gaol + + + +In memoriam of C. T. W. +Sometimes trooper of +The Royal Horse Guards +Obiit H.M. Prison +Reading, Berkshire +July 7th, 1896 + + +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! + + + +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. + + + +Poem: 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 armed 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 winged 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 scarped 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. + + + +Poem: 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. + + + +Poem: 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. + + + +Poem: 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! + +Simaetha 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? + + + +Poem: 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. + + + +Poem: 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 Veronese 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 accursed Jew - +O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due: +I think I will not quarrel with the Bond. + + + +Poem: 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! + + + +Poem: Phedre + + + +(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 Phaeacian 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. + + + +Poem: Sonnet On Hearing The Dies Irae 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. + + + +Poem: 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. + + + +Poem: 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. + + + +Poem: 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. + + + +Poem: 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, {1} +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 {2} +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 tusked 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 Galilaean'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, {3} - +Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame +To light thine altar; He {4} 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. + + + +Poem: 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. + + + +Poem: 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 Palaestrina, 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. + + + +Poem: 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 Cytheraean 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: + +{1} Shelley +{2} Swinburne +{3} Rossetti +{4} Burne-Jones + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde + |