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Showing posts with label Oscar Wilde Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oscar Wilde Poems. Show all posts

Oscar Wilde Poems -WothQuotes

on
9/03/2016

Oscar Wilde Poems


Oscar Wilde was an Irish Poet, Novelist and Essayist. Born on 16 October 1854 at Westland Row, Dublin. Died on 30 November 1900. 

Selected Poems by Oscar Wilde


Helas!


To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?
Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over on some boyish holiday
With idle songs for pipe and virelay, 
Which do but mar the secret of the whole.
Surely there was a time I might have trod
The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance 
Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God:
Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod 
I did but touch the honey of romance -
And must I lose a soul's inheritance? 


Les Silhouette 

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 grass 
The young brown-throated reapers pass,
Like silhouettes against the sky.


Impression De Voyage

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky
Burned like a heated opal through the air,
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.
From the steep pros I marked with quickening eye
Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak.


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 muffled 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.


By The Arno 

The oleander on the wall 
Grows crimson in the dawning light,
Though the grey shadows of the night
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

The dew is bright upon the hill,
And bright the blossom overhead, 
But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
The little Attic song is still.

Only the leaves are gently stirred
By the soft breathing of the gale, 
And in the almond-scented vale 
The lonely nightingale is heard.

The day will make thee silent soon,
O nightingale sing on for love!
While yet upon the shadow grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn
In sea-green vest the moaning steals,
And to love's frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn.

Fast climbing up the eastern sky
To grasp and slay the shuddering night,
All careless of my heart's delight,
Or if the nightingale should die.



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