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The Poetry of Oscar Wilde


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beautiful star with the crimson mouth!

       O moon with the brows of gold!

       Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!

       And light for my love her way,

       Lest her feet should stray

       On the windy hill and the wold!

       O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!

       O moon with the brows of gold!

       O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!

       O ship with the wet, white sail!

       Put in, put in, to the port to me!

       For my love and I would go

       To the land where the daffodils blow

       In the heart of a violet dale!

       O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!

       O ship with the wet, white sail!

       O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!

       O bird that sits on the spray!

       Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat!

       And my love in her little bed

       Will listen, and lift her head

       From the pillow, and come my way!

       O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!

       O bird that sits on the spray!

       O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!

       O blossom with lips of snow!

       Come down, Come down, for my love to wear!

       You will die in her head in a crown,

       You will die in a fold of her gown,

       To her little light heart you will go!

       O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!

       O blossom with lips of snow!

      A Fragment

       Table of Contents

      Beautiful star with the crimson lips

       And flagrant daffodil hair,

       Come back, come back, in the shaking ships

       O’er the much-overrated sea,

       To the hearts that are sick for thee

       With a woe worse than mal de mer —

       O beautiful stars with the crimson lips

       And the flagrant daffodil hair.

       O ship that shakes on the desolate sea,

       Neath the flag of the wan White Star,

       Thou bringest a brighter star with thee

       From the land of the Philistine,

       Where Niagara’s reckoned fine

       And Tupper is popular —

       O ship that shakes on the desolate sea,

       Neath the flag of the wan White Star.

      Le Jardin Des Tuileries

       Table of Contents

      This winter air is keen and cold,

       And keen and cold this winter sun,

       But round my chair the children run

       Like little things of dancing gold.

       Sometimes about the painted kiosk

       The mimic soldiers strut and stride,

       Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide

       In the bleak tangles of the bosk.

       And sometimes, while the old nurse cons

       Her book, they steal across the square

       And launch their paper navies where

       Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.

       And now in mimic flight they flee,

       And now they rush, a boisterous band —

       And, tiny hand on tiny hand,

       Climb up the black and leafless tree.

       Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,

       And children climbed me, for their sake

       Though it be winter I would break

       Into spring blossoms white and blue!

      On the Sale by Auction of Keats’ Love Letters

       Table of Contents

      These are the letters which Endymion wrote

       To one he loved in secret and apart,

       And now the brawlers of the auction-mart

       Bargain and bid for each tear-blotted note,

       Aye! for each separate pulse of passion quote

       The merchant’s price! I think they love not art

       Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart,

       That small and sickly eyes may glare or gloat.

       Is it not said, that many years ago,

       In a far Eastern town some soldiers ran

       With torches through the midnight, and began

       To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw

       Dice for the garments of a wretched Man,

       Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?

      The New Remorse

       Table of Contents

      The sin was mine; I did not understand.

       So now is music prisoned in her cave,

       Save where some ebbing desultory wave

       Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.

       And in the withered hollow of this land

       Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,

       That hardly can the leaden willow crave

       One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.

       But who is this that cometh by the shore?

       (Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this

       Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?

       It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss

       The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,

       And I shall weep and worship, as before.

      An Inscription

       Table of Contents

      Go, little book,

       To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,

       Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:

       And bid him look

       Into thy pages: it may hap that he

       May find that golden maidens dance through thee.

      The Harlot’s House