Complete Works of Oscar Wilde

by Oscar Wilde

  Magdalen College, Oxford

  TRISTITIAE

  1

  O well for him who lives at ease

  With garnered gold in wide domain,

  Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,

  The crashing down of forest trees.

  O well for him who ne’er hath known

  The travail of the hungry years,

  A father grey with grief and tears,

  A mother weeping all alone.

  But well for him whose foot hath trod

  The weary road of toil and strife,

  Yet from the sorrows of his life

  Builds ladders to be nearer God.

  THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE

  1

  Thou knowest all; I seek in vain

  What lands to till or sow with seed –

  The land is black with briar and weed,

  Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

  Thou knowest all; I sit and wait

  With blinded eyes and hands that fail,

  Till the last lifting of the veil

  And the first opening of the gate.

  Thou knowest all; I cannot see.

  I trust I shall not live in vain,

  I know that we shall meet again

  In some divine eternity.

  HEART’S YEARNINGS

  2

  Surely to me the world is all too drear,

  To shape my sorrow to a tuneful strain,

  It is enough for wearied ears to hear

  The Passion-Music of a fevered brain,

  Or low complainings of a heart’s pain.

  My saddened soul is out of tune with time,

  Nor have I care to set the crooked straight,

  Or win green laurels for some pleasant rhyme,

  Only with tired eyes I sit and wait,

  Until the opening of the Future’s Mystic Gate.

  I am so tired of all the busy throng

  That chirp and chatter in the noisy street,

  That I would sit alone and sing no song

  But listen for the coming of Love’s feet.

  Love is a pleasant messenger to greet.

  O Love come close before the hateful day,

  And tarry not until the night is dead,

  O Love come quickly, for although one pray,

  What has God ever given in thy stead

  But dust and ashes for the head?

  Strain, strain O longing eyes till Love is near;

  O Heart be ready for his entering thee,

  O Breaking Heart be free from doubt and fear,

  For when Love comes he cometh gloriously,

  And entering love is very fair to see.

  Peace, Peace O breaking heart, Love comes apace,

  And surely great delight and gladness brings,

  Now look at last upon his shining face,

  And listen to the flying of his wings

  And the sweet voice of Love that sings.

  O pale moon shining fair and clear

  Between the apple-blossoms white,

  That cluster round my window here,

  Why does Love tarry in his flight

  And not come near for my heart’s delight –

  I only hear the sighing of the breeze

  That makes complaint in a sweet undertune,

  I only see the blossom-laden trees

  Splintering the arrows of the golden moon,

  That turns black night into the burnished noon.

  Magdalen College, Oxford

  THE LITTLE SHIP

  Have your forgotten the ship love

  I made as a childish toy,

  When you were a little girl love,

  And I was a little boy?

  Ah! never in all the fleet love

  Such a beautiful ship was seen,

  For the sides were painted blue love

  And the deck was yellow and green.

  I carved a wonderful mast love

  From my Father’s Sunday stick,

  You cut up your one good dress love

  That the sail should be of silk.

  And I launched it on the pond love

  And I called it after you,

  And for the want of the bottle of wine love

  We christened it with the dew.

  And we put your doll on board love

  With a cargo of chocolate cream,

  But the little ship struck on a cork love

  And the doll went down with a scream!

  It is forty years since then love

  And your hair is silver grey,

  And we sit in our old armchairs love

  And we watch our children play.

  And I have a wooden leg love

  And the title of K. C. B.

  For bringing Her Majesty’s Fleet love

  Over the stormy sea.

  But I’ve never forgotten the ship love

  I made as a childish toy

  When you were a little girl love

  And I was a sailor boy.

  ΘPHNΩIΔIA1

  Song sung by the captive women of Troy on the beach at Aulis, while the Achaeans were there storm-bound through the wrath of dishonoured Achilles, and waiting for a fair wind to bring them home.2

  ΣTPOΦH3

  O fair wind blowing from the sea!

  Who through the dark and mist dost guide

  The ships that on the billows ride,

  Unto what land, ah, misery!

  Shall I be borne, across what stormy wave,

  Or to whose house a purchased slave?

  O sea-wind blowing fair and fast

  Is it unto the Dorian strand,

  Or to those far and fabled shore,

  Where great Apidanus outpours

  His streams upon the fertile land,

  Or shall I tread the Phthian sand,

  Borne by the swift breath of the blast?

  ANTIΣTPOΦH1

  O blowing wind! You bring my sorrow near,

  For surely borne with splashing of the oar,

  And hidden in some galley-prison drear

  I shall be led unto that distant shore

  Where the tall palm-tree first took root, and made,

  With clustering laurel leaves, a pleasant shade

  For Leto when with travail great she bore

  A god and goddess in Love’s bitter fight

  Her body’s anguish, and her soul’s delight.

  It may be in Delos,

  Encircled of seas,

  I shall sing with some maids

  From the Cyclades,

  Or Artemis goddess

  And queen and maiden,

  Sing of the gold

  In her hair heavy-laden.

  Sing of her hunting,

  Her arrows and bow,

  And in singing find solace

  From weeping and woe.

  ΣTPOΦH B

  Or it may be my bitter doom

  To stand a handmaid at the loom,

  In distant Athens of supreme renown;

  And weave some wondrous tapestry,

  Or work in bright embroidery,

  Upon the crocus flowered robe and saffron-coloured gown,

  The flying horses wrought in gold,

  The silver chariot onward rolled

  That bears Athena through the Town;

  Or the warring giants that strove to climb

  From earth to heaven to reign as kings,

  And Zeus the conquering son of Time

  Borne on the hurricane’s eagle wings;

  And the lightning flame and the bolts that fell

  From the risen cloud at the god’s behest,

  And hurled the rebels to darkness of hell,

  To a sleep without slumber or waking or rest.

  ANTIΣTPOΦH B

  Alas! Our children’s sorrow, and their pain In slavery.

  Alas! Our warrior sires nobly slain For liberty.

  Alas! Our country’s glory, and the name Of Troy’s fair town;

  By the
lances and the fighting and the flame Tall Troy is down.

  I shall pass with my soul over-laden,

  To a land far away and unseen,

  For Asia is slave and handmaiden,

  Europa is Mistress and Queen.

  Without love, or love’s holiest treasure,

  I shall pass into Hades abhorred,

  To the grave as my chamber of pleasure,

  To death as my Lover and Lord.

  LOTUS LAND

  The sultry noon is amorous for rain;

  The golden bee, the lily’s paramour,

  Sleeps in the lily-bell, which doth allure

  And bind its lovers with a honied chain;

  How still it is! no passionate note of pain

  Comes from the tawny songstress of the brake,

  And in the polished mirror of the lake

  My purple mountains see themselves again.

  O sad, and sweet, and silent! surely here

  A man might dwell apart from troublous fear,

  Watching the bounteous seasons as they go

  From lusty spring to winter; – Yet you say

  That there is War in Europe on this day?

  Red War and Ravenous? Can this be so!

  Illaunroe

  DÉSESPOIR

  The seasons send their ruin as they go,

  For in the spring the narciss shows its head

  Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,

  And in the autumn purple violets blow,

  And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;

  Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again

  And this grey land grow green with summer rain

  And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.

  But what of life whose bitter hungry sea

  Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night

  Covers the days which never more return?

  Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn

  We lose too soon, and only find delight

  In withered husks of some dead memory.

  LOTUS LEAVES

  1

  There is no peace beneath the noon.

  Ah! In those meadows is there peace

  Where, girdled with a silver fleece,

  As a bright shepherd, strays the moon?

  Queen of the gardens of the sky,

  Where stars like lilies, white and fair,

  Shine through the mists of frosty air,

  Oh, tarry, for the dawn is nigh!

  Oh, tarry, for the envious day

  Stretches long hands to catch thy feet,

  Alas! But thou art over-fleet,

  Alas! I know thou wilt not stay.

  Up sprang the sun to run his race,

  The breeze blew fair on meadow and lea;

  But in the west I seemed to see

  The likeness of a human face.

  A linnet on the hawthorn spray

  Sang of the glories of the spring,

  And made the flow’ring copses ring

  With gladness for the new-born day.

  A lark from out the grass I trod

  Flew wildly, and was lost to view

  In the great seamless veil of blue

  That hangs before the face of God.

  The willow whispered overhead

  That death is but a newer life,

  And that with idle words of strife

  We bring dishonour on the dead.

  I took a branch from off the tree,

  And hawthorn-blossoms drenched with dew,

  I bound them with a sprig of yew,

  And made a garland fair to see.

  I laid the flowers where He lies,

  (Warm leaves and flowers on the stone);

  What joy I had to sit alone

  Till evening broke on tired eyes:

  Till all the shifting clouds had spun

  A robe of gold for God to wear,

  And into seas of purple air

  Sank the bright galley of the sun.

  Shall I be gladdened for the day,

  And let my inner heart be stirred

  By murmuring tree or song of bird,

  And sorrow at the wild wind’s play?

  Not so: such idle dreams belong

  To souls of lesser depth than mine;

  I feel that I am half divine;

  I know that I am great and strong.

  I know that every forest tree

  By labour rises from the root;

  I know that none shall gather fruit

  By sailing on the barren sea.

  UNTITLED

  1

  O loved one lying far away

  Beyond the reach of human moan,

  Can coffin board and heavy stone

  Turn godlike man to senseless clay?

  Or hast thou eyes to see the light

  And feeling quick with joy and pain?

  Alas! I think a lesser gain

  Is mine, if thou can’st see me right.

  Alas! how mean we must appear

  When looked on by the holy dead!

  I trust the glory round thy head

  Hast kept thine eyes from seeing clear.

  2

  For in my heart these fancies rise

  That I the singer of this song

  Am weak where thou didst think me strong

  And foolish where you feigned me wise.

  Now that I lack thy helping hand

  I shift with every changing creed,

  No better than a broken reed

  Less stable than the shifting sand.

  Less stable than the changing sea,

  At every setting of the sun

  I cry in vain, ‘What have I done

  This day for immortality?’

  A FRAGMENT FROM THE AGAMEMNON OF AESCHYLOS

  (Lines 1140-1173)

  The scene is the court-yard of the Palace at Argos. Agamemnon has already entered the House of Doom, and Clytemnestra has followed close on his heels. Cassandra is left alone upon the stage. The conscious terror of death and the burden of prophecy lie heavy upon her; terrible signs and visions greet her approach. She sees blood upon the lintel, and the smell of blood scares her, as some bird, from the door. The ghosts of the murdered children come to mourn with her. Her second sight pierces the Palace walls; she sees the fatal bath, the tramelling net, and the axe sharpened for her own ruin and her lord’s.

  But not even in the hour of her last anguish is Apollo merciful; her warnings are unheeded, her prophetic utterances made mock of.

  The orchestra is filled with a chorus of old men weak, foolish, irresolute. They do not believe the weird woman of mystery till the hour for help is past, and the cry of Agamemnon echoes from the house, ‘Oh me! I am stricken with a stroke of death.’

  Chorus

  Thy prophecies are but a lying tale,

  For cruel gods have brought thee to this state,

  And of thyself and thine own wretched fate

  Sing you this song and these unhallowed lays,

  Like the brown bird of grief insatiate

  Crying for sorrow of its dreary days;

  Crying for Itys, Itys, in the vale –

  The nightingale! The nightingale!

  Cassandra

  Yet I would that to me they had given

  The fate of that singer so clear,

  Fleet wings to fly up unto heaven,

  Away from all mourning and fear;

  For ruin and slaughter await me – the cleaving with sword and the spear.

  Chorus

  Whence come these crowding fancies on thy brain,

  Sent by some god it may be, yet for naught?

  Why dost thou sing with evil-tongued refrain,

  Moulding thy terrors to this hideous strain

  With shrill, sad cries, as if by death distraught?

  Why dost thou tread that path of prophecy,

  Where, upon either hand,

  Landmarks for ever stand

  With horrid legend f
or all men to see?

  Cassandra

  O bitter bridegroom who didst bear

  Ruin to those that loved thee true!

  O holy stream Scamander, where

  With gentle nurturement I grew

  In the first days, when life and love were new.

  And now – and now – it seems that I must lie

  In the dark land that never sees the sun;

  Sing my sad songs of fruitless prophecy

  By the black stream Cokytos that doth run

  Through long, low hills of dreary Acheron.

  Chorus

  Ah, but thy word is clear!

  Even a child among men,

  Even a child might see

  What is lying hidden here.

  Ah! I am smitten deep

  To the heart with a deadly blow

  At the evil fate of the maid,

  At the cry of her song of woe!

  Sorrows for her to bear!

  Wonders for me to hear!