Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde, Oscar Wilde
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Oscar Wilde

Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde

polyxena
polyxenaje citiralaпре 3 године
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.
Anastassiya Ten
Anastassiya Tenje citiraoпре 2 месеца
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;
Elisa Natalia Oropeza Durán
Elisa Natalia Oropeza Duránje citiraoпре 2 месеца
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.
Elisa Natalia Oropeza Durán
Elisa Natalia Oropeza Duránje citiraoпре 2 месеца
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
Elisa Natalia Oropeza Durán
Elisa Natalia Oropeza Duránje citiraoпре 2 месеца
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:
Elisa Natalia Oropeza Durán
Elisa Natalia Oropeza Duránje citiraoпре 2 месеца
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,
Elisa Natalia Oropeza Durán
Elisa Natalia Oropeza Duránje citiraoпре 2 месеца
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailje citiralaпре 2 месеца
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!
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailje citiralaпре 2 месеца
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
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailje citiralaпре 2 месеца
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
Aixa Martinez
Aixa Martinezje citiraoпре 3 месеца
old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
n
nje citiralaпре 3 месеца
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.
B
Bje citiraoпре 5 месеци
He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailje citiralaпре 5 месеци
Poem: Ave Imperatrix
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailje citiralaпре 6 месеци
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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,
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailje citiralaпре 6 месеци
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.
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailje citiralaпре 6 месеци
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,
Синтия📚💜🌺
Синтия📚💜🌺je citiraoпре 6 месеци
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.
Синтия📚💜🌺
Синтия📚💜🌺je citiraoпре 6 месеци
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.
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailje citiralaпре 6 месеци
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.
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