Poems by Oscar Wilde Part 6

IMPRESSION DU MATIN

THE Thames nocturne of blue and gold Changed to a Harmony in grey: A barge with ochre-coloured hay Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold

The yellow fog came creeping down The bridges, till the houses' walls Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul's Loomed like a bubble o'er the town.

Then suddenly arose the clang Of waking life; the streets were stirred With country waggons: and a bird Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.

But one pale woman all alone, The daylight kissing her wan hair, Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare, With lips of flame and heart of stone.

MAGDALEN WALKS

THE little white clouds are racing over the sky, And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March, The daffodil breaks under foot, and the ta.s.selled larch Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze, The odour of deep wet gra.s.s, and of brown new-furrowed earth, The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's glad birth, Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring, And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar, And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green, And the gloom of the wych-elm's hollow is lit with the iris sheen Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there, Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew, And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!

The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.

ATHANASIA

TO that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught Of all the great things men have saved from Time, The withered body of a girl was brought Dead ere the world's glad youth had touched its prime, And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid In the dim womb of some black pyramid.

But when they had unloosed the linen band Which swathed the Egyptian's body,-lo! was found Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand A little seed, which sown in English ground Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.

With such strange arts this flower did allure That all forgotten was the asphodel, And the brown bee, the lily's paramour, Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell, For not a thing of earth it seemed to be, But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.

In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white At its own beauty, hung across the stream, The purple dragon-fly had no delight With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam, Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss, Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.

For love of it the pa.s.sionate nightingale Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king, And the pale dove no longer cared to sail Through the wet woods at time of blossoming, But round this flower of Egypt sought to float, With silvered wing and amethystine throat.

While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue A cooling wind crept from the land of snows, And the warm south with tender tears of dew Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.

But when o'er wastes of lily-haunted field The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune, And broad and glittering like an argent shield High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon, Did no strange dream or evil memory make Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?

Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years Seemed but the lingering of a summer's day, It never knew the tide of cankering fears Which turn a boy's gold hair to withered grey, The dread desire of death it never knew, Or how all folk that they were born must rue.

For we to death with pipe and dancing go, Nor would we pa.s.s the ivory gate again, As some sad river wearied of its flow Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men, Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!

And counts it gain to die so gloriously.

We mar our lordly strength in barren strife With the world's legions led by clamorous care, It never feels decay but gathers life From the pure sunlight and the supreme air, We live beneath Time's wasting sovereignty, It is the child of all eternity.

SERENADE

(FOR MUSIC)

THE western wind is blowing fair Across the dark aegean sea, And at the secret marble stair My Tyrian galley waits for thee.

Come down! the purple sail is spread, The watchman sleeps within the town, O leave thy lily-flowered bed, O Lady mine come down, come down!

She will not come, I know her well, Of lover's vows she hath no care, And little good a man can tell Of one so cruel and so fair.

True love is but a woman's toy, They never know the lover's pain, And I who loved as loves a boy Must love in vain, must love in vain.

O n.o.ble pilot, tell me true, Is that the sheen of golden hair?

Or is it but the tangled dew That binds the pa.s.sion-flowers there?

Good sailor come and tell me now Is that my Lady's lily hand?

Or is it but the gleaming prow, Or is it but the silver sand?

No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew, 'Tis not the silver-fretted sand, It is my own dear Lady true With golden hair and lily hand!

O n.o.ble pilot, steer for Troy, Good sailor, ply the labouring oar, This is the Queen of life and joy Whom we must bear from Grecian sh.o.r.e!

The waning sky grows faint and blue, It wants an hour still of day, Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew, O Lady mine, away! away!

O n.o.ble pilot, steer for Troy, Good sailor, ply the labouring oar, O loved as only loves a boy!

O loved for ever evermore!

ENDYMION

(FOR MUSIC)

THE apple trees are hung with gold, And birds are loud in Arcady, The sheep lie bleating in the fold, The wild goat runs across the wold, But yesterday his love he told, I know he will come back to me.

O rising moon! O Lady moon!

Be you my lover's sentinel, You cannot choose but know him well, For he is shod with purple shoon, You cannot choose but know my love, For he a shepherd's crook doth bear, And he is soft as any dove, And brown and curly is his hair.

The turtle now has ceased to call Upon her crimson-footed groom, The grey wolf prowls about the stall, The lily's singing seneschal Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all The violet hills are lost in gloom.

O risen moon! O holy moon!

Stand on the top of Helice, And if my own true love you see, Ah! if you see the purple shoon, The hazel crook, the lad's brown hair, The goat-skin wrapped about his arm, Tell him that I am waiting where The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.

The falling dew is cold and chill, And no bird sings in Arcady, The little fauns have left the hill, Even the tired daffodil Has closed its gilded doors, and still My lover comes not back to me.

False moon! False moon! O waning moon!

Where is my own true lover gone, Where are the lips vermilion, The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon?

Why spread that silver pavilion, Why wear that veil of drifting mist?

Ah! thou hast young Endymion, Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!

LA BELLA DONNA DELLA MIA MENTE

MY limbs are wasted with a flame, My feet are sore with travelling, For, calling on my Lady's name, My lips have now forgot to sing.