Poems by Oscar Wilde Part 4

I, only I, must wander wearily, And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.'

E TENEBRIS

COME down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand, For I am drowning in a stormier sea Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee: The wine of life is spilt upon the sand, My heart is as some famine-murdered land Whence all good things have perished utterly, And well I know my soul in h.e.l.l must lie If I this night before G.o.d's throne should stand.

'He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase, Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name From morn to noon on Carmel's smitten height.'

Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night, The feet of bra.s.s, the robe more white than flame, The wounded hands, the weary human face.

VITA NUOVA

I STOOD by the unvintageable sea Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray; The long red fires of the dying day Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily; And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee: 'Alas!' I cried, 'my life is full of pain, And who can garner fruit or golden grain From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!'

My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw, Nathless I threw them as my final cast Into the sea, and waited for the end.

When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw From the black waters of my tortured past The argent splendour of white limbs ascend!

MADONNA MIA

A LILY-GIRL, not made for this world's pain, With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears, And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears Like bluest water seen through mists of rain: Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain, Red underlip drawn in for fear of love, And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove, Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.

Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease, Even to kiss her feet I am not bold, Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe, Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

THE NEW HELEN

WHERE hast thou been since round the walls of Troy The sons of G.o.d fought in that great emprise?

Why dost thou walk our common earth again?

Hast thou forgotten that impa.s.sioned boy, His purple galley and his Tyrian men And treacherous Aphrodite's mocking eyes?

For surely it was thou, who, like a star Hung in the silver silence of the night, Didst lure the Old World's chivalry and might Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!

Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?

In amorous Sidon was thy temple built Over the light and laughter of the sea Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt, Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry, All through the waste and wearied hours of noon; Till her wan cheek with flame of pa.s.sion burned, And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned From Calpe and the cliffs of Herakles!

No! thou art Helen, and none other one!

It was for thee that young Sarpedon died, And Memnon's manhood was untimely spent; It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried With Thetis' child that evil race to run, In the last year of thy beleaguerment; Ay! even now the glory of thy fame Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel, Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well Clash ghostly s.h.i.+elds, and call upon thy name.

Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew, Where never mower rose at break of day But all unswathed the trammelling gra.s.ses grew, And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand Till summer's red had changed to withered grey?

Didst thou lie there by some Lethaean stream Deep brooding on thine ancient memory, The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam From s.h.i.+vered helm, the Grecian battle-cry?

Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill With one who is forgotten utterly, That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine; Hidden away that never mightst thou see The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel; Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening, But only Love's intolerable pain, Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain, Only the bitterness of child-bearing.

The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of Death Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me, While yet I know the summer of my days; For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise, So bowed am I before thy mystery; So bowed and broken on Love's terrible wheel, That I have lost all hope and heart to sing, Yet care I not what ruin time may bring If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.

Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here, But, like that bird, the servant of the sun, Who flies before the north wind and the night, So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear, Back to the tower of thine old delight, And the red lips of young Euphorion; Nor shall I ever see thy face again, But in this poisonous garden-close must stay, Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain, Till all my loveless life shall pa.s.s away.

O Helen! Helen! Helen! yet a while, Yet for a little while, O, tarry here, Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!

For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile Of heaven or h.e.l.l I have no thought or fear, Seeing I know no other G.o.d but thee: No other G.o.d save him, before whose feet In nets of gold the tired planets move, The incarnate spirit of spiritual love Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.

Thou wert not born as common women are!

But, girt with silver splendour of the foam, Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise!

And at thy coming some immortal star, Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies, And waked the shepherds on thine island-home.

Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air; No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair, Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.

Lily of love, pure and inviolate!

Tower of ivory! red rose of fire!

Thou hast come down our darkness to illume: For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate, Wearied with waiting for the World's Desire, Aimlessly wandered in the House of gloom, Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness, Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine, And the white glory of thy loveliness.

THE BURDEN OF ITYS

THIS English Thames is holier far than Rome, Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea Breaking across the woodland, with the foam Of meadow-sweet and white anemone To fleck their blue waves,-G.o.d is likelier there Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

Those violet-gleaming b.u.t.terflies that take Yon creamy lily for their pavilion Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake A lazy pike lies basking in the sun, His eyes half shut,-he is some mitred old Bishop in _partibus_! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.

The wind the restless prisoner of the trees Does well for Palaestrina, one would say The mighty master's hands were on the keys Of the Maria organ, which they play When early on some sapphire Easter morn In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne

From his dark House out to the Balcony Above the bronze gates and the crowded square, Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy To toss their silver lances in the air, And stretching out weak hands to East and West In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.

Is not yon lingering orange after-glow That stays to vex the moon more fair than all Rome's lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago I knelt before some crimson Cardinal Who bare the Host across the Esquiline, And now-those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.

The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring Through this cool evening than the odorous Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing, When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine, And makes G.o.d's body from the common fruit of corn and vine.

Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the ma.s.s Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird Sings overhead, and through the long cool gra.s.s I see that throbbing throat which once I heard On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady, Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.

Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe, And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.

And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas, And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay, And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees That round and round the linden blossoms play; And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall, And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,

And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring While the last violet loiters by the well, And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing The song of Linus through a sunny dell Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.

And sweet with young Lycoris to recline In some Illyrian valley far away, Where canopied on herbs amaracine We too might waste the summer-tranced day Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry, While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.

But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot Of some long-hidden G.o.d should ever tread The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.

Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister, Though what thou sing'st be thine own requiem!

Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn These unfamiliar haunts, this English field, For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield

Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose Which all day long in vales aeolian A lad might seek in vain for over-grows Our hedges like a wanton courtesan Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and c.o.c.kles blue

Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs For swallows going south, would never spread Their azure tents between the Attic vines; Even that little weed of ragged red, Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady Would be a trespa.s.ser, and many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames Which to awake were sweeter ravishment Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant For Cytheraea's brows are hidden here Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer

There is a tiny yellow daffodil, The b.u.t.terfly can see it from afar, Although one summer evening's dew could fill Its little cup twice over ere the star Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold