The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Oscar Wilde - Poem: Roses And Rue
21:44 May 10 2005
Times Read: 440

(To L. L.)



Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,

Were it worth the pleasure,

We never could learn love's song,

We are parted too long.



Could the passionate past that is fled

Call back its dead,

Could we live it all over again,

Were it worth the pain!



I remember we used to meet

By an ivied seat,

And you warbled each pretty word

With the air of a bird;



And your voice had a quaver in it,

Just like a linnet,

And shook, as the blackbird's throat

With its last big note;



And your eyes, they were green and grey

Like an April day,

But lit into amethyst

When I stooped and kissed;



And your mouth, it would never smile

For a long, long while,

Then it rippled all over with laughter

Five minutes after.



You were always afraid of a shower,

Just like a flower:

I remember you started and ran

When the rain began.



I remember I never could catch you,

For no one could match you,

You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,

Little wings to your feet.



I remember your hair - did I tie it?

For it always ran riot -

Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:

These things are old.



I remember so well the room,

And the lilac bloom

That beat at the dripping pane

In the warm June rain;



And the colour of your gown,

It was amber-brown,

And two yellow satin bows

From your shoulders rose.



And the handkerchief of French lace

Which you held to your face -

Had a small tear left a stain?

Or was it the rain?



On your hand as it waved adieu

There were veins of blue;

In your voice as it said good-bye

Was a petulant cry,



'You have only wasted your life.'

(Ah, that was the knife!)

When I rushed through the garden gate

It was all too late.



Could we live it over again,

Were it worth the pain,

Could the passionate past that is fled

Call back its dead!



Well, if my heart must break,

Dear love, for your sake,

It will break in music, I know,

Poets' hearts break so.



But strange that I was not told

That the brain can hold

In a tiny ivory cell

God's heaven and hell.

Oscar Wilde - Poem: Apologia
19:20 May 01 2005
Times Read: 446




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 some 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 beloved for a little while,

To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen

His purple wings flit once across thy smile.



Ay! though the gorged 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 - Poem: Queen Henrietta Maria
19:18 May 01 2005
Times Read: 447

Oscar Wilde - Poem: Queen Henrietta Maria



(To Ellen Terry)



In the lone tent, waiting for victory,

She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,

Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:

The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,

War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry

To her proud soul no common fear can bring:

Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,

Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.

O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face

Made for the luring and the love of man!

With thee I do forget the toil and stress,

The loveless road that knows no resting place,

Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness,

My freedom, and my life republican!