by Oscar Wilde
To the peaks of the pine-covered mountains where the pines hang as tresses of hair.
Let us seek the watch-towers undaunted,
Where the well-watered corn-fields abound,
And through murmurs of rivers nymph-haunted
The songs of the sea-waves resound;
And the sun in the sky never wearies of spreading his radiance around.
Let us cast off the haze
Of the mists from our band,
Till with far-seeing gaze
We may look on the land.
ANTIΣTPOΦH3
Cloud maidens that bring the rain-shower,
To the Pallas-loved land let us wing,
To the land of stout heroes and Power,
Where Kekrops was hero and king,
Where honour and silence is given
To the mysteries that none may declare,
Where are gifts to the high gods in heaven
When the house of the gods is laid bare,
Where are lofty roofed temples, and statues well carven and fair
Where are feasts to the happy immortals
When the sacred procession draws near,
Where garlands make bright the bright portals
At all seasons and months in the year;
And when spring days are here,
Then we tread to the wine-god a measure,
In Bacchanal dance and in pleasure,
’Mid the contests of sweet singing choirs,
And the crash of loud lyres.
Oxford, 1874
FROM SPRING DAYS TO WINTER
(For Musk)
In the glad springtime when leaves were green,
O merrily the throstle sings!
I sought, amid the tangled sheen,
Love whom mine eyes had never seen,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
Between the blossoms red and white,
O merrily the throstle sings!
My love first came into my sight,
O perfect vision of delight,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
The yellow apples glowed like fire,
O merrily the throstle sings!
O Love too great for lip or lyre,
Blown rose of love and of desire,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
But now with snow the tree is grey,
Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!
My love is dead: ah! Well-a-day,
See at her silent feet I lay
A dove with broken wings!
Ah, Love! Ah, Love! That thou wert slain –
Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!
REQUIESCAT
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
Avignon
SAN MINIATO
See, I have climbed the mountain side
Up to this holy house of God,
Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,
And throned upon the crescent moon
The Virginal white Queen of Grace, –
Mary! could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.
O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!
My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.
O crowned by God with love and flame!
O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
O listen ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.
BY THE ARNO
The oleander on the wall
Grows crimson in the dawning light,
Though the grey shadows of the night
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.
The dew is bright upon the hill,
And bright the blossoms overhead,
But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
The little Attic song is still.
Only the leaves are gently stirred
By the soft breathing of the gale,
And in the almond-scented vale
The lonely nightingale is heard.
The day will make thee silent soon,
O nightingale sing on for love!
While yet upon the shadowy grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.
Before across the silent lawn
In sea-green vest the morning steals,
And to love’s frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn
Fast climbing up the eastern sky
To grasp and slay the shuddering night,
All careless of my heart’s delight,
Or if the nightingale should die.
ROME UNVISITED
1
The corn has turned from grey to red,
Since first my spirit wandered forth,
From the drear cities of the north,
And to Italia’s mountains fled.
And here I set my face towards home,
For all my pilgrimage is done,
Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun
Marshals the way to Holy Rome.
O Blessed Lady, who dost hold
Upon the seven hills thy reign!
O Mother without blot or stain,
Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!
O Roma, Roma, at thy feet
I lay this barren gift of song!
For, ah! the way is steep and long
That leads unto thy sacred street.
2
And yet what joy it were for me
To turn my feet unto the south,
And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole!
And wandering through the tangled pines
That break the gold of Arno’s stream,
To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines.
By many a vineyard-hidden home,
Orchard and olive-garden grey,
Till from the drear Campagna’s way
The seven hills bear up the dome!
3
A pilgrim from the northern seas –
What joy for me to seek alone
The wondrous Temple and the throne
Of Him who holds the awful keys!
When, bright with purple and with gold,
Come priest and holy Cardinal,
And borne above the heads of all
The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
O joy to see before I die
The only God-anointed King,
And hear the silver trumpets ring
A triumph as He passes by!
Or at the brazen-pillared shrine
Holds high the mystic sacrifice,
And shows his God to human eyes
Beneath the veil of bread and wine.
4
For lo, what changes time can bring!
The cycles of revolving years
May free my heart from all its fears,
And teach my lips a song to sing.
Before yon field of trembling gold
Is garnered into dusty sheaves,
Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves
Flutter as birds adown the wold,
I may have run the glorious race,
And caught the to
rch while yet aflame,
And called upon the holy name
Of Him who now doth hide His face.
Arona
LA BELLA DONNA DELLA MIA MENTE1
My limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For, calling on my Lady’s name,
My lips have now forgot to sing.
O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,
My gentle Lady passeth by.
She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart’s delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtesan
Or moonlit water in the night.
Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
Of autumn corn are not more fair.
Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.
Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet’s throat
Is not so sweet to look upon.
As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
Where the peach reddens to the south.
O twining hands! O delicate
White body made for love and pain!
O House of love! O desolate
Pale flower beaten by the rain!
CHANSON
A ring of gold and a milk-white dove
Are goodly gifts for thee,
And a hempen rope for your own love
To hang upon a tree.
For you a House of Ivory,
(Roses are white in the rose-bower)!
A narrow bed for me to lie,
(White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!
Myrtle and jessamine for you,
(O the red rose is fair to see)!
For me the cypress and the rue,
(Finest of all is rosemary)!
For you three lovers of your hand,
(Green grass where a man lies dead)!
For me three paces on the sand,
(Plant lilies at my head)!
UNTITLED
See! the gold sun has risen,
(Ah God! how very fair)
Too soon he has broken from prison –
Ah Sweet! it is only my hair.
Nay, for I see the snow-white day
Come from his rosy bower,
And I know that the night has fled away,
Ah Sweet! ‘tis my breast flower.
Nay, but the night has surely fled,
For crimson grows the south,
And the gates of dawn are opening red,
Ah Sweet, it is only my mouth.
Then why do I see the sky so blue,
Flecked where the linnet flies,
Ah love lie nearer, and tell me true
Is it only the light in thine eyes?
Nay but the sun doth o’er us pass
Turning my blood to wine,
As we lie by a stream and the warm soft grass
Ah Sweet! ‘tis my body and thine.
UNTITLED
She stole behind him where he lay
All tossed and tired from the dance.
He turned his curly head away
With pretty boyish petulance.
She said, ‘I loved you all the while,
Rough Colin is a clumsy clout.’
He twirled his crook, and would not smile
His cross lips from their rosy pout.
She said, ‘You are more dear to me
Than are the fat lambs of my flock.’
He would not speak, but sulkily
Smoothed down his crumpled linen smock.
She said, ‘I love you best of all,’
And put her little hand in his.
Her voice was sweeter than the call
At evening of the pigeon is.
He shook her clinging fingers off:
(But little maids have little wiles)
She said, ‘I heard your white ewe cough,
Just as I passed beyond the stiles.’
He rose and seized his polished crook;
She hid her face in birdlike laughter;
He raced along the sedgy brook
And she – alas, she followed after.
She followed, and he ran before,
Carelessly whistling to the wind,
But ere he closed the sheepfold door
The gold-haired child crept in behind.
There rose a little undertune
Of singing in the wattled fold,
And through its latticed cloud the moon
Leaned down with naked arms of gold.
THE DOLE OF THE KING’S DAUGHTER
(Breton)
Seven stars in the still water,
And seven in the sky;
Seven sins on the King’s daughter,
Deep in her soul to lie.
Red roses are at her feet,
(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)
And O where her bosom and girdle meet
Red roses are hidden there.
Fair is the knight who lieth slain
Amid the rush and reed,
See the lean fishes that are fain
Upon dead men to feed.
Sweet is the page that lieth there,
(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)
See the black ravens in the air,
Black, O black as the night are they.
What do they there so stark and dead?
(There is blood upon her hand)
Why are the lilies flecked with red?
(There is blood on the river sand.)
There are two that ride from the south and east,
And two from the north and west,
For the black raven a goodly feast,
For the King’s daughter rest.
There is one man who loves her true,
(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)
He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,
(One grave will do for four.)
No moon in the still heaven,
In the black water none,
The sins on her soul are seven,
The sin upon his is one.
LOVE SONG
Though the wind shakes lintel and rafter,
And the priest sits mourning alone,
For the ruin that comes hereafter
When the world shall be overthrown,
What matter the wind and weather
To those that live for a day?
When my Love and I are together,
What matter what men may say?
I and my love where the wild red rose is,
When hands grow weary and eyes are bright,
Kisses are sweet as the evening closes,
Lips are reddest before the night,
And what matter if Death be an endless slumber
And thorns the commonest crown for the head,
What matter if sorrow like wild weeds cumber,
When kisses are sweetest, and lips are red?
I that am only the idlest singer
That ever sang by a desolate sea,
A goodlier gift than song can bring her,
Sweeter than sound of minstrelsy,
For singers grow weary, and lips will tire,
And winds will scatter the pipe and reed,
And even the sound of the silver lyre
Sickens my heart in the days of need,
But never at all do I fail or falter
For I know that Love is a god, and fair,
And if death and derision follow after,
The only god worth a sin and a prayer.
And She and I
are as Queen and Master,
Why should we care if a people groan
‘Neath a despot’s feet, or some red disaster
Shatter the fool on his barren throne?
What matter if prisons and palaces crumble,
And the red flag floats in the piled-up street,
When over the sound of the cannon’s rumble
The voice of my Lady is clear and sweet?
For the worlds are many and we are single,
And sweeter to me when my Lady sings,
Than the cry when the East and the West world mingle,
For clamour of battle, and the fall of Kings.
So out of the reach of tears and sorrow
Under the wild-rose let us play,
And if death and severing come tomorrow,
I have your kisses, sweet heart, today.
