Complete Works of Oscar Wilde

by Oscar Wilde

  And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.

  Perchance it may be better so – at least

  I have not made my heart a heart of stone,

  Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,

  Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.

  Many a man hath done so; sought to fence

  In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,

  Trodden the dusty road of common sense,

  While all the forest sang of liberty,

  Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight

  Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,

  To where some steep untrodden mountain height

  Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s hair.

  Or how the little flower be trod upon,

  The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,

  Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun

  Content if once its leaves were aureoled.

  But surely it is something to have been

  The best beloved for a little while,

  To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen

  His purple wings flit once across thy smile.

  Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feed

  On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the bars,

  Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed

  The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!

  QUIA MULTUM AMAVI1

  Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest

  When first he takes from out the hidden shrine

  His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,

  And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,

  Feels not such awful wonder as I felt

  When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,

  And all night long before thy feet I knelt

  Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.

  Ah! Hadst thou liked me less and loved me more,

  Through all those summer days of joy and rain,

  I had not now been sorrow’s heritor,

  Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.

  Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal,

  Tread on my heels with all his retinue,

  I am most glad I loved thee – think of all

  The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!

  SILENTIUM AMORIS1

  As often-times the too resplendent sun

  Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon

  Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won

  A single ballad from the nightingale,

  So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,

  And all my sweetest singing out of tune.

  And as at dawn across the level mead

  On wings impetuous some wind will come,

  And with its too harsh kisses break the reed

  Which was its only instrument of song,

  So me too stormy passions work my wrong,

  And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.

  But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show

  Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;

  Else it were better we should part, and go,

  Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,

  And I to nurse the barren memory

  Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.

  HER VOICE

  The wild bee reels from bough to bough

  With his furry coat and his gauzy wing,

  Now in a lily-cup, and now

  Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,

  In his wandering;

  Sit closer love: it was here I trow

  I made that vow,

  Swore that two lives should be like one

  As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,

  As long as the sunflower sought the sun, –

  It shall be, I said, for eternity

  ’Twixt you and me!

  Dear friend, those times are over and done;

  Love’s web is spun.

  Look upward where the poplar trees

  Sway and sway in the summer air,

  Here in the valley never a breeze

  Scatters the thistledown, but there

  Great winds blow fair

  From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,

  And the wave-lashed leas.

  Look upward where the white gull screams,

  What does it see that we do not see?

  Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams

  On some outward voyaging argosy,

  Ah! can it be

  We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!

  How sad it seems.

  Sweet, there is nothing left to say

  But this, that love is never lost,

  Keen winter stabs the breasts of May

  Whose crimson roses burst his frost,

  Ships tempest-tossed

  Will find a harbour in some bay,

  And so we may.

  And there is nothing left to do

  But to kiss once again, and part,

  Nay, there is nothing we should rue,

  I have my beauty, – you your Art,

  Nay, do not start,

  One world was not enough for two

  Like me and you.

  MY VOICE

  Within this restless, hurried, modern world

  We took our hearts’ full pleasure – You and I,

  And now the white sails of our ship are furled,

  And spent the lading of our argosy.

  Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,

  For very weeping is my gladness fled,

  Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion,

  And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.

  But all this crowded life has been to thee

  No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell

  Of viols, or the music of the sea

  That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.

  ΓΛYKYΠIKPOΣ EPΩΣ1

  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 o
f 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

  that the poet’s crown of bays.

  THE GARDEN OF EROS

  It is full summer now, the heart of June;

  Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir

  Upon the upland meadow where too soon

  Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,

  Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,

  And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

  Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,

  That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on

  To vex the rose with jealousy, and still

  The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,

  And like a strayed and wandering reveller

  Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s messenger

  The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,

  One pale narcissus loiters fearfully

  Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid

  Of their own loveliness some violets lie

  That will not look the gold sun in the face

  For fear of too much splendour, – ah! methinks it is a place

  Which should be trodden by Persephone

  When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!

  Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!

  The hidden secret of eternal bliss

  Known to the Grecian here a man might find,

  Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.

  There are the flowers which mourning Herakles

  Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,

  Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze

  Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,

  That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,

  And lilac lady’s-smock, – but let them bloom alone, and leave

  Yon spirèd hollyhock red-crocketed

  To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,

  Its little bellringer, go seek instead

  Some other pleasaunce; the anemone

  That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl

  Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl

  Their painted wings beside it, – bid it pine

  In pale virginity; the winter snow

  Will suit it better than those lips of thine

  Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go

  And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,

  Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.

  The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus

  So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet,

  Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous

  As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet

  Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar

  For any dappled fawn, – pluck these, and those fond flowers which are

  Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon

  Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,

  That morning star which does not dread the sun,

  And budding marjoram which but to kiss

  Would sweeten Cytheraea’s lips and make

  Adonis jealous, – these for thy head, – and for thy girdle take

  Yon curving spray of purple clematis

  Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,

  And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,

  But that one narciss which the startled Spring

  Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard

  In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird,

  Ah! Leave it for a subtle memory

  Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,

  When April laughed between her tears to see

  The early primrose with shy footsteps run

  From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,

  Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering gold.

  Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet

  As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!

  And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet

  Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,

  For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride

  And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.

  And I will cut a reed by yonder spring

  And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan

  Wonder what young intruder dares to sing

  In these still haunts, where never foot of man

  Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy

  The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.

  And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears

  Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,

  And why the hapless nightingale forbears

  To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone

  When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,

  And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.

  And I will sing how sad Proserpina

  Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,

  And lure the silver-breasted Helena

  Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,

  So shalt thou see that awful loveliness

  For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss!

  And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale

  How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,

  And hidden in a grey and misty veil

  Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun

  Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase

  Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.

  And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,

  We may behold Her face who long ago

  Dwelt among men by the Aegean sea,

  And whose sad house with pillaged portico

  And friezeless wall and columns toppled down

  Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet-cinctured town.

  Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,

  They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;

  Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile

  Is better than a thousand victories,

  Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo

  Rise up in wrath against them! Tarry still, there are a few

  Who for thy sake would give their manlihood

  And consecrate their being; I at least

  Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,

  And in thy temples found a goodlier feast

  Than this starved age can give me, spite of all

  Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.

  Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,

  The woods of white Colonos are not here,

  On our bleak hills the olive never blows,

  No simple priest conducts his lowing steer

  Up the steep marble way, nor through the town

  Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.

  Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,

  Whose very name should be a memo
ry

  To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest

  Beneath the Roman walls, and melody,

  Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play

  The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.

  Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left

  One silver voice to sing his threnody,

  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

  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