Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

CHARACTERS: GUIDO BARDI, A Florentine prince SIMONE, a merchant

Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone With no green weight of laurels round his head, But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,

Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown From antique reeds to common folk unknown:

Is it thy will that I should wax and wane, Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey, And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain

How steep the stairs within King's houses are For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread, And O how salt and bitter is the bread

To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught Of all the great things men have saved from Time, The withered body of a girl was brought

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

I am weary of lying within the chase When the knights are meeting in market-place. Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town

The oleander on the wall Grows crimson in the dawning light, Though the grey shadows of the night

(To Ellen Terry) As one who poring on a Grecian urn Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,

I have no store Of gryphon-guarded gold; Now, as before,

I have no store Of gryphon-guarded gold; Now, as before,

I. He was a Grecian lad, who coming home With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily

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,

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand, For I am drowning in a stormier sea Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:

The silver trumpets rang across the Dome: The people knelt upon the ground with awe: And borne upon the necks of men I saw,

The apple trees are hung with gold, And birds are loud in Arcady, The sheep lie bleating in the fold,

(To my Friend Henry Irving) The silent room, the heavy creeping shade, The dead that travel fast, the opening door,

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

In the glad springtime when leaves were green, O merrily the throstle sings! I sought, amid the tangled sheen,

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky Burned like a heated opal through the air; We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair

To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute on which can winds can play, Is it for this that I have given away

The wild bee reels from bough to bough With his furry coat and his gauzy wing, Now in a lily-cup, and now

I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat, The oranges on each o'erhanging spray Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;

It is full winter now:    the trees are bare, Save where the cattle huddle from the cold Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky Burned like a heated opal through the air; We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair

The Thames nocturne of blue and gold Changed to a Harmony in grey: A barge with ochre-coloured hay

The sky is laced with fitful red, The circling mists and shadows flee, The dawn is rising from the sea,

Out of the mid-wood's twilight Into the meadow's dawn, Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,

Her ivory hands on the ivory keys Strayed in a fitful fantasy, Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees

Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!

My limbs are wasted with a flame, My feet are sore with travelling, For, calling on my Lady's name,

To outer senses there is peace, A dreamy peace on either hand Deep silence in the shadowy land,

A white mist drifts across the shrouds, A wild moon in this wintry sky Gleams like an angry lion's eye

The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold

This    winter air is keen and cold, And keen and cold this winter sun, But round my chair the children run

Under the rose-tree's dancing shade There stands a little ivory girl, Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl

Against these turbid turquoise skies The light and luminous balloons Dip and drift like satin moons

The sea is flecked with bars of grey, The dull dead wind is out of tune, And like a withered leaf the moon

Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings When far away upon a barbarous strand, In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,

A lily-girl, not made for this world's pain, With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears, And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears

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

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,

Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre? And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her

These are the letters which Endymion wrote To one he loved in secret, and apart. And now the brawlers of the auction mart

I. O goat-foot God of Arcady! This modern world is grey and old,

Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire, From passionate pain to deadlier delight, I am too young to live without desire,

(To Sarah Bernhardt) How vain and dull this common world must seem To such a One as thou, who should'st have talked

How steep the stairs within Kings' houses are For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread, And O how salt and bitter is the bread

Set in this stormy Northern sea, Queen of these restless fields of tide, England! what shall men say of thee,

A ring of gold and a milk-white dove Are goodly gifts for thee, And a hempen rope for your own love

I. He was a Grecian lad, who coming home With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand, For I am drowning in a stormier sea Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:

The apple trees are hung with gold, And birds are loud in Arcady, The sheep lie bleating in the fold,

To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play, Is it for this that I have given away

I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat, The oranges on each o'erhanging spray Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;

It is full winter now: the trees are bare, Save where the cattle huddle from the cold Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear

Out of the mid-wood's twilight Into the meadow's dawn, Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,

A white mist drifts across the shrouds, A wild moon in this wintry sky Gleams like an angry lion's eye

The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold

This winter air is keen and cold, And keen and cold this winter sun, But round my chair the children run

Under the rose-tree's dancing shade There stands a little ivory girl, Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl

Against these turbid turquoise skies The light and luminous balloons Dip and drift like satin moons,

Albeit nurtured in democracy, And liking best that state republican Where every man is Kinglike and no man

Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings When far away upon a barbarous strand, In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,

Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre? And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her

These are the letters which Endymion wrote To one he loved in secret, and apart. And now the brawlers of the auction mart

I O goat-foot God of Arcady! This modern world is grey and old,

There was a time in Europe long ago When no man died for freedom anywhere, But England's lion leaping from its lair

Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear

I. The corn has turned from grey to red, Since first my spirit wandered forth

See, I have climbed the mountain side Up to this holy house of God, Where once that Angel-Painter trod

The western wind is blowing fair Across the dark AEgean sea, And at the secret marble stair

Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes See nothing save their own unlovely woe, Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,

An omnibus across the bridge Crawls like a yellow butterfly, And, here and there, a passer-by

(In memoriam C. T. W. Sometime trooper of the Royal Horse Guards

The sin was mine; I did not understand. So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave

Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers; This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours

Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been; In the first days thy sword republican Ruled the whole world for many an age's span:

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

(To Ellen Terry) I marvel not Bassanio was so bold To peril all he had upon the lead,

(To Ellen Terry) In the lone tent, waiting for victory, She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,

Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest When first he takes from out the hidden shrine His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,

(Newdigate prize poem recited in the Sheldonian Theatre Oxford June 26th, 1878. To my friend George Fleming author of 'The Nile Novel' and 'Mirage') I.

Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear

I. The corn has turned from grey to red, Since first my spirit wandered forth

(To L. L.) Could we dig up this long-buried treasure, Were it worth the pleasure,

See, I have climbed the mountain side Up to this holy house of God, Where once that Angel-Painter trod

The Gods are dead: no longer do we bring To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves! Demeter's child no more hath tithe of sheaves,

As often-times the too resplendent sun Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won

I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned, Italia, my Italia, at thy name: And when from out the mountain's heart I came

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

An omnibus across the bridge Crawls like a yellow butterfly And, here and there, a passer-by

To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear This paltry age's gaudy livery, To let each base hand filch my treasury,

I He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red,

I. He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red,

I He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red,

This English Thames is holier far than Rome, Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea Breaking across the woodland, with the foam

Seven stars in the still water, And seven in the sky; Seven sins on the King's daughter,

It is full summer now, the heart of June; Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir Upon the upland meadow where too soon

Rid of the world's injustice, and his pain, He rests at last beneath God's veil of blue: Taken from life when life and love were new

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone; Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,

We caught the tread of dancing feet, We loitered down the moonlit street, And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy The sons of God fought in that great emprise? Why dost thou walk our common earth again?

The sin was mine; I did not understand. So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave

(To Marcel Schwob in friendship and in admiration) In a dim corner of my room for longer than my fancy thinks A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting gloom.

[Greek text which cannot be reproduced] Thou knowest all; I seek in vain What lands to till or sow with seed

O singer of Persephone! In the dim meadows desolate Dost thou remember Sicily?

This mighty empire hath but feet of clay: Of all its ancient chivalry and might Our little island is forsaken quite:

Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers; This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours

I can write no stately proem As a prelude to my lay; From a poet to a poem

[Greek text which cannot be reproduced] O well for him who lives at ease With garnered gold in wide domain,

O beautiful star with the crimson mouth! O moon with the brows of gold! Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!

Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been; In the first days thy sword republican Ruled the whole world for many an age's span:

I stood by the unvintageable sea Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray; The long red fires of the dying day

Go, little book, To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl, Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl: