Poems by Oscar Wilde Part 16

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth, And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you-ah! what else had I a boy to do,- For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past, Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the root, And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Pa.s.sion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you, G.o.d's own mother was less dear to me, And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days, I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.

UNCOLLECTED POEMS

FROM SPRING DAYS TO WINTER

(FOR MUSIC)

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!

TRISt.i.tae

_???????_, _a?????? e?p?_, _t? d' e? ????t?_

O WELL for him who lives at ease With garnered gold in wide domain, Nor heeds the splashing of the rain, The crashing down of forest trees.

O well for him who ne'er hath known The travail of the hungry years, A father grey with grief and tears, A mother weeping all alone.

But well for him whose foot hath trod The weary road of toil and strife, Yet from the sorrows of his life.

Builds ladders to be nearer G.o.d.

THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE

. . . _??ay?a??? d' ??e?_ _???? ?e???e?? ?ste ???p??? st????_, _?a? t?? y?? e??a? t?? d? y?_.

THOU knowest all; I seek in vain What lands to till or sow with seed- The land is black with briar and weed, Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

Thou knowest all; I sit and wait With blinded eyes and hands that fail, Till the last lifting of the veil And the first opening of the gate.

Thou knowest all; I cannot see.

I trust I shall not live in vain, I know that we shall meet again In some divine eternity.

IMPRESSIONS

I LE JARDIN

THE lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter,-hour by hour.

Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy ma.s.s: The roses lie upon the gra.s.s Like little shreds of crimson silk.

II LA MER

A WHITE mist drifts across the shrouds, A wild moon in this wintry sky Gleams like an angry lion's eye Out of a mane of tawny clouds.

The m.u.f.fled steersman at the wheel Is but a shadow in the gloom;- And in the throbbing engine-room Leap the long rods of polished steel.

The shattered storm has left its trace Upon this huge and heaving dome, For the thin threads of yellow foam Float on the waves like ravelled lace.

UNDER THE BALCONY

O BEAUTIFUL star with the crimson mouth!

O moon with the brows of gold!

Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!

And light for my love her way, Lest her little feet should stray On the windy hill and the wold!

O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!

O moon with the brows of gold!