Classic Poetry Series Oscar Wilde - poems - Publication Date: 2004 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Oscar Wilde(1854-1900) Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in Dublin, the son of an eye- surgeon and a literary hostess and writer (known under the pseudonym "Speranza"). After studying at Trinity College, Dublin, Wilde went to Magdalen College, Oxford, where he achieved a double first and won the Newdigate prize for a poem Ravenna. While at Oxford he became notorious for his flamboyant wit, talent, charm and aestheticism, and this reputation soon won him a place in London society. Bunthorne, the Fleshly Poet in Gilbert and Sullivan's opera Patience was widely thought to be a caricature of Wilde (though in fact it was intended as a skit of Rosetti) and Wilde seems to have consciously styled himself on this figure. In 1882 Wilde gave a one year lecture tour of America, visiting Paris in 1883 before returning to New York for the opening of his first play Vera. In 1884 he married and had two sons, for whom he probably wrote his first book of fairy tales, The Happy Prince. The next decade was his most prolific and the time when he wrote the plays for which he is best remembered. His writing and particularly his plays are epigramatic and witty and Wilde was not afraid to shock. This period was also haunted by accusations about his personal life, chiefly prompted by the Marquess of Queensberry's fierce opposition to the intense friendship between Wilde and her son, Lord Alfred. These accusations culminated in 1895 in Wilde's imprisonment for homosexual offences. While in prison, Wilde was declared bankrupt, and after his release he lived on the generosity of friends. From prison he wrote a long and bitter letter to Lord Alfred, part of which was afterwards published as De Profundis, but after his release he wrote nothing but the poem The Ballad of Reading Gaol. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 A Fragment 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. Oscar Wilde www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 A Lament 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 feet hath trod The weary road of toil and strife, Yet from the sorrows of his life Builds ladders to be nearer God. Oscar Wilde www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 A Villanelle O singer of Persephone! In the dim meadows desolate Dost thou remember Sicily? Still through the ivy flits the bee Where Amaryllis lies in state; O Singer of Persephone! Simaetha calls on Hecate And hears the wild dogs at the gate; Dost thou remember Sicily? Still by the light and laughing sea Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate; O Singer of Persephone! And still in boyish rivalry Young Daphnis challenges his mate; Dost thou remember Sicily? Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee, For thee the jocund shepherds wait; O Singer of Persephone! Dost thou remember Sicily? Oscar Wilde www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 A Vision Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone With no green weight of laurels round his head, But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan For sins no bleating victim can atone, And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed. Girt was he in a garment black and red, And at his feet I marked a broken stone Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees. Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame, I cried to Beatrice, 'Who are these? ' And she made answer, knowing well each name, 'AEschylos first, the second Sophokles, And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.' Oscar Wilde www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 Amor Intellectualis OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown From antique reeds to common folk unknown: And often launched our bark upon that sea Which the nine Muses hold in empery, And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam, Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home Till we had freighted well our argosy. Of which despoilèd treasures these remain, Sordello's passion, and the honied line Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine Driving his pampered jades, and more than these, The seven-fold vision of the Florentine, And grave-browed Milton's solemn harmonies. Oscar Wilde www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 6 An Inscription 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. Oscar Wilde www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 7 Apologia 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 Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day? Is it thy will--Love that I love so well-- That my Soul's House should be a tortured spot Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not? Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure, And sell ambition at the common mart, And let dull failure be my vestiture, 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 the steep untrodden mountain height Caught the last tresses of the Sun God's hair. Or how the little flower he 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 belovèd for a little while, To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen His purple wings flit once across thy smile. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 8 Ay! though the gorgèd 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! Oscar Wilde www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 9 At Verona 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 Which falls from this Hound's table,--better far That I had died in the red ways of war, Or that the gate of Florence bare my head, Than to live thus, by all things comraded Which seek the essence of my soul to mar. 'Curse God and die: what better hope than this? He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss Of his gold city, and eternal day'-- Nay peace: behind my prison's blinded bars I do possess what none can take away, My love, and all the glory of the stars. Oscar Wilde www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 10 Athanasia 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 Dead ere the world's glad youth had touched its prime, And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid In the dim wound of some black pyramid. But when they had unloosed the linen band Which swathed the Egyptian's body,- lo! was found Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand A little seed, which sown in English ground Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear, And spread rich odors through our springtide air. With such strange arts this flower did allure That all forgotten was the asphodel, And the brown bee, the lily's paramour, Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell, For not a thing of earth it seemed to be, But stolen from some heavenly Arcady. In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white At its own beauty, hung across the stream, The purple dragon-fly had no delight With its gold-dust to make his wings a-gleam, Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss, Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.