Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde Part 5

Peace, peace! we wrong the n.o.ble dead To vex their solemn slumber so; Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head, Up the steep road must England go,

Yet when this fiery web is spun, Her watchmen shall descry from far The young Republic like a sun Rise from these crimson seas of war.

Poem: To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems

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

For if of these fallen petals One to you seem fair, Love will waft it till it settles On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden All the loveless land, It will whisper of the garden, You will understand.

Poem: Magdalen Walks

[After gaining the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1874, Oscar Wilde proceeded to Oxford, where he obtained a demys.h.i.+p at Magdalen College. He is the only real poet on the books of that inst.i.tution.]

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 ta.s.selled larch Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze, The odour of deep wet gra.s.s, and of brown new-furrowed earth, The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's glad birth, Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring, And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar, And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green, And the gloom of the wych-elm's hollow is lit with the iris sheen Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there, Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew, And flas.h.i.+ng adown the river, a flame of blue!

The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.

Poem: Theocritus - 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?

Poem: Greece

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky Burned like a heated opal through the air; We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.

From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek, Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak, And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.

The flapping of the sail against the mast, The ripple of the water on the side, The ripple of girls' laughter at the stern, The only sounds:- when 'gan the West to burn, And a red sun upon the seas to ride, I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

KATAKOLO.

Poem: Portia

(To Ellen Terry. Written at the Lyceum Theatre)

I marvel not Ba.s.sanio was so bold To peril all he had upon the lead, Or that proud Aragon bent low his head Or that Morocco's fiery heart grew cold: For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold Which is more golden than the golden sun No woman Veronese looked upon Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.

Yet fairer when with wisdom as your s.h.i.+eld The sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned, And would not let the laws of Venice yield Antonio's heart to that accursed Jew - O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due: I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.

Poem: Fabien Dei Franchi

(To my Friend Henry Irving)

The silent room, the heavy creeping shade, The dead that travel fast, the opening door, The murdered brother rising through the floor, The ghost's white fingers on thy shoulders laid, And then the lonely duel in the glade, The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore, Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o'er, - These things are well enough, - but thou wert made For more august creation! frenzied Lear Should at thy bidding wander on the heath With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear Pluck Richard's recreant dagger from its sheath - Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare's lips to blow!

Poem: Phedre

(To Sarah Bernhardt)