Poems by Oscar Wilde Part 9

The trooping fawns at evening came and laid Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs, And on my topmost branch the blackbird made A little nest of gra.s.ses for his spouse, And now and then a twittering wren would light On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.

I was the Attic shepherd's trysting place, Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay, And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase The timorous girl, till tired out with play She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair, And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare.

Then come away unto my ambuscade Where cl.u.s.tering woodbine weaves a canopy For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify The dearest rites of love; there in the cool And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,

The ouzel's haunt, the wild bee's pasturage, For round its rim great creamy lilies float Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage, Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat Steered by a dragon-fly,-be not afraid To leave this wan and wave-kissed sh.o.r.e, surely the place was made

For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen, One arm around her boyish paramour, Strays often there at eve, and I have seen The moon strip off her misty vest.i.ture For young Endymion's eyes; be not afraid, The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.

Nay if thou will'st, back to the beating brine, Back to the boisterous billow let us go, And walk all day beneath the hyaline Huge vault of Neptune's watery portico, And watch the purple monsters of the deep Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.

For if my mistress find me lying here She will not ruth or gentle pity show, But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere Relentless fingers string the cornel bow, And draw the feathered notch against her breast, And loose the arched cord; aye, even now upon the quest

I hear her hurrying feet,-awake, awake, Thou laggard in love's battle! once at least Let me drink deep of pa.s.sion's wine, and slake My parched being with the nectarous feast Which even G.o.ds affect! O come, Love, come, Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.'

Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air Grew conscious of a G.o.d, and the grey seas Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare Blew from some ta.s.selled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed, And like a flame a barbed reed flew whizzing down the glade.

And where the little flowers of her breast Just brake into their milky blossoming, This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest, Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering, And ploughed a b.l.o.o.d.y furrow with its dart, And dug a long red road, and cleft with winged death her heart.

Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry On the boy's body fell the Dryad maid, Sobbing for incomplete virginity, And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead, And all the pain of things unsatisfied, And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side.

Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan, And very pitiful to see her die Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known The joy of pa.s.sion, that dread mystery Which not to know is not to live at all, And yet to know is to be held in death's most deadly thrall.

But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere, Who with Adonis all night long had lain Within some shepherd's hut in Arcady, On team of silver doves and gilded wain Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,

And when low down she spied the hapless pair, And heard the Oread's faint despairing cry, Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air As though it were a viol, hastily She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume, And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous doom.

For as a gardener turning back his head To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows With careless scythe too near some flower bed, And cuts the th.o.r.n.y pillar of the rose, And with the flower's loosened loneliness Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness

Driving his little flock along the mead Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede And made the gaudy moth forget its pride, Treads down their br.i.m.m.i.n.g golden chalices Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages;

Or as a schoolboy tired of his book Flings himself down upon the reedy gra.s.s And plucks two water-lilies from the brook, And for a time forgets the hour gla.s.s, Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way, And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay.

And Venus cried, 'It is dread Artemis Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty, Or else that mightier maid whose care it is To guard her strong and stainless majesty Upon the hill Athenian,-alas!

That they who loved so well unloved into Death's house should pa.s.s.'

So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl In the great golden waggon tenderly (Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl Just threaded with a blue vein's tapestry Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest)

And then each pigeon spread its milky van, The bright car soared into the dawning sky, And like a cloud the aerial caravan Pa.s.sed over the aegean silently, Till the faint air was troubled with the song From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long.

But when the doves had reached their wonted goal Where the wide stair of orbed marble dips Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul Just shook the trembling petals of her lips And pa.s.sed into the void, and Venus knew That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,

And bade her servants carve a cedar chest With all the wonder of this history, Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.

Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere The morning bee had stung the daffodil With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair The waking stag had leapt across the rill And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the gra.s.s their bodies slept.

And when day brake, within that silver shrine Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous, Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine That she whose beauty made Death amorous Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord, And let Desire pa.s.s across dread Charon's icy ford.

III

IN melancholy moonless Acheron, Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May Chequers with chestnut blooms the gra.s.sy floor, Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,

There by a dim and dark Lethaean well Young Charmides was lying; wearily He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel, And with its little rifled treasury Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream, And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,

When as he gazed into the watery gla.s.s And through his brown hair's curly tangles scanned His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pa.s.s Across the mirror, and a little hand Stole into his, and warm lips timidly Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh.

Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw, And ever nigher still their faces came, And nigher ever did their young mouths draw Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame, And longing arms around her neck he cast, And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast,

And all his h.o.a.rded sweets were hers to kiss, And all her maidenhood was his to slay, And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss Their pa.s.sion waxed and waned,-O why essay To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!

Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.

Too venturous poesy, O why essay To pipe again of pa.s.sion! fold thy wings O'er daring Icarus and bid thy lay Sleep hidden in the lyre's silent strings Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill, Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho's golden quid!

Enough, enough that he whose life had been A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame, Could in the loveless land of Hades glean One scorching harvest from those fields of flame Where pa.s.sion walks with naked unshod feet And is not wounded,-ah! enough that once their lips could meet

In that wild throb when all existences Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne Of the pale G.o.d who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.

FLOWERS OF GOLD

IMPRESSIONS

I LES SILHOUETTES

THE sea is flecked with bars of grey, The dull dead wind is out of tune, And like a withered leaf the moon Is blown across the stormy bay.

Etched clear upon the pallid sand Lies the black boat: a sailor boy Clambers aboard in careless joy With laughing face and gleaming hand.

And overhead the curlews cry, Where through the dusky upland gra.s.s The young brown-throated reapers pa.s.s, Like silhouettes against the sky.

II LA FUITE DE LA LUNE

TO outer senses there is peace, A dreamy peace on either hand Deep silence in the shadowy land, Deep silence where the shadows cease.

Save for a cry that echoes shrill From some lone bird disconsolate; A corncrake calling to its mate; The answer from the misty hill.

And suddenly the moon withdraws Her sickle from the lightening skies, And to her sombre cavern flies, Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.

THE GRAVE OF KEATS

RID of the world's injustice, and his pain, He rests at last beneath G.o.d's veil of blue: Taken from life when life and love were new The youngest of the martyrs here is lain, Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.