Poems by Oscar Wilde Part 18

The white leaves float upon the air, The red leaves flutter idly down, Some fall upon her yellow gown, And some upon her raven hair.

She takes an amber lute and sings, And as she sings a silver crane Begins his scarlet neck to strain, And flap his burnished metal wings.

She takes a lute of amber bright, And from the thicket where he lies Her lover, with his almond eyes, Watches her movements in delight.

And now she gives a cry of fear, And tiny tears begin to start: A thorn has wounded with its dart The pink-veined sea-sh.e.l.l of her ear.

And now she laughs a merry note: There has fallen a petal of the rose Just where the yellow satin shows The blue-veined flower of her throat.

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

II LES BALLONS

AGAINST these turbid turquoise skies The light and luminous balloons Dip and drift like satin moons, Drift like silken b.u.t.terflies;

Reel with every windy gust, Rise and reel like dancing girls, Float like strange transparent pearls, Fall and float like silver dust.

Now to the low leaves they cling, Each with coy fantastic pose, Each a petal of a rose Straining at a gossamer string.

Then to the tall trees they climb, Like thin globes of amethyst, Wandering opals keeping tryst With the rubies of the lime.

CANZONET

I HAVE no store Of gryphon-guarded gold; Now, as before, Bare is the shepherd's fold.

Rubies nor pearls Have I to gem thy throat; Yet woodland girls Have loved the shepherd's note.

Then pluck a reed And bid me sing to thee, For I would feed Thine ears with melody, Who art more fair Than fairest fleur-de-lys, More sweet and rare Than sweetest ambergris.

What dost thou fear?

Young Hyacinth is slain, Pan is not here, And will not come again.

No horned Faun Treads down the yellow leas, No G.o.d at dawn Steals through the olive trees.

Hylas is dead, Nor will he e'er divine Those little red Rose-petalled lips of thine.

On the high hill No ivory dryads play, Silver and still Sinks the sad autumn day.

SYMPHONY IN YELLOW

AN omnibus across the bridge Crawls like a yellow b.u.t.terfly, And, here and there, a pa.s.ser-by Shows like a little restless midge.

Big barges full of yellow hay Are moored against the shadowy wharf, And, like a yellow silken scarf, The thick fog hangs along the quay.

The yellow leaves begin to fade And flutter from the Temple elms, And at my feet the pale green Thames Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

IN THE FOREST

OUT of the mid-wood's twilight Into the meadow's dawn, Ivory limbed and brown-eyed, Flashes my Faun!

He skips through the copses singing, And his shadow dances along, And I know not which I should follow, Shadow or song!

O Hunter, snare me his shadow!

O Nightingale, catch me his strain!

Else moonstruck with music and madness I track him in vain!

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.

WITH A COPY OF 'A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES'

GO, little book, To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl, Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl: And bid him look Into thy pages: it may hap that he May find that golden maidens dance through thee.

ROSES AND RUE

(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 pa.s.sionate 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;