Poems by Oscar Wilde Part 26

O much-loved city! I have wandered far From the wave-circled islands of my home; Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome Rise slowly from the drear Campagna's way, Clothed in the royal purple of the day: I from the city of the violet crown Have watched the sun by Corinth's hill go down, And marked the 'myriad laughter' of the sea From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady; Yet back to thee returns my perfect love, As to its forest-nest the evening dove.

O poet's city! one who scarce has seen Some twenty summers cast their doublets green For Autumn's livery, would seek in vain To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain, Or tell thy days of glory;-poor indeed Is the low murmur of the shepherd's reed, Where the loud clarion's blast should shake the sky, And flame across the heavens! and to try Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know That never felt my heart a n.o.bler glow Than when I woke the silence of thy street With clamorous trampling of my horse's feet, And saw the city which now I try to sing, After long days of weary travelling.

VII.

Adieu, Ravenna! but a year ago, I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain: The sky was as a shield that caught the stain Of blood and battle from the dying sun, And in the west the circling clouds had spun A royal robe, which some great G.o.d might wear, While into ocean-seas of purple air Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light.

Yet here the gentle stillness of the night Brings back the swelling tide of memory, And wakes again my pa.s.sionate love for thee: Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come On meadow and tree the Summer's lordly bloom; And soon the gra.s.s with brighter flowers will blow, And send up lilies for some boy to mow.

Then before long the Summer's conqueror, Rich Autumn-time, the season's usurer, Will lend his h.o.a.rded gold to all the trees, And see it scattered by the spendthrift breeze; And after that the Winter cold and drear.

So runs the perfect cycle of the year.

And so from youth to manhood do we go, And fall to weary days and locks of snow.

Love only knows no winter; never dies: Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies And mine for thee shall never pa.s.s away, Though my weak lips may falter in my lay.

Adieu! Adieu! yon silent evening star, The night's amba.s.sador, doth gleam afar, And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold.

Perchance before our inland seas of gold Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves, Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves, I may behold thy city; and lay down Low at thy feet the poet's laurel crown.

Adieu! Adieu! yon silver lamp, the moon, Which turns our midnight into perfect noon, Doth surely light thy towers, guarding well Where Dante sleeps, where Byron loved to dwell.