Poems by Oscar Wilde Part 17

O s.h.i.+p that shakes on the desolate sea!

O s.h.i.+p with the wet, white sail!

Put in, put in, to the port to me!

For my love and I would go To the land where the daffodils blow In the heart of a violet dale!

O s.h.i.+p that shakes on the desolate sea!

O s.h.i.+p with the wet, white sail!

O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!

O bird that sits on the spray!

Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat!

And my love in her little bed Will listen, and lift her head From the pillow, and come my way!

O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!

O bird that sits on the spray!

O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!

O blossom with lips of snow!

Come down, come down, for my love to wear!

You will die on her head in a crown, You will die in a fold of her gown, To her little light heart you will go!

O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!

O blossom with lips of snow!

THE HARLOT'S HOUSE

WE caught the tread of dancing feet, We loitered down the moonlit street, And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray, We heard the loud musicians play The 'Treues Liebes Herz' of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques, Making fantastic arabesques, The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin To sound of horn and violin, Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons, Slim silhouetted skeletons Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand, And danced a stately saraband; Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed A phantom lover to her breast, Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette Came out, and smoked its cigarette Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said, 'The dead are dancing with the dead, The dust is whirling with the dust.'

But she-she heard the violin, And left my side, and entered in: Love pa.s.sed into the house of l.u.s.t.

Then suddenly the tune went false, The dancers wearied of the waltz, The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street, The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet, Crept like a frightened girl.

LE JARDIN DES TUILERIES

THIS winter air is keen and cold, And keen and cold this winter sun, But round my chair the children run Like little things of dancing gold.

Sometimes about the painted kiosk The mimic soldiers strut and stride, Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide In the bleak tangles of the bosk.

And sometimes, while the old nurse cons Her book, they steal across the square, And launch their paper navies where Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.

And now in mimic flight they flee, And now they rush, a boisterous band- And, tiny hand on tiny hand, Climb up the black and leafless tree.

Ah! cruel tree! if I were you, And children climbed me, for their sake Though it be winter I would break Into spring blossoms white and blue!

ON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS' LOVE LETTERS

THESE are the letters which Endymion wrote To one he loved in secret, and apart.

And now the brawlers of the auction mart Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note, Ay! for each separate pulse of pa.s.sion quote The merchant's price. I think they love not art Who break the crystal of a poet's heart That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago, In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran With torches through the midnight, and began To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw Dice for the garments of a wretched man, Not knowing the G.o.d's wonder, or His woe?

THE NEW REMORSE

THE sin was mine; I did not understand.

So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.

And in the withered hollow of this land Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave, That hardly can the leaden willow crave One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.

But who is this who cometh by the sh.o.r.e?

(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?

It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss The yet unravished roses of thy mouth, And I shall weep and wors.h.i.+p, as before.

FANTAISIES DeCORATIVES

I LE PANNEAU

UNDER the rose-tree's dancing shade There stands a little ivory girl, Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl With pale green nails of polished jade.

The red leaves fall upon the mould, The white leaves flutter, one by one, Down to a blue bowl where the sun, Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.