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Oscar Wilde

A poem by Oscar Wilde: Silentium Amoris

Silentium Amoris AS oftentimes the too resplendent sun Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won A single ballad from the nightingale, So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail, And all …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Serenade

Serenade THE western wind is blowing fair Across the dark Ægean 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 …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Santa Decca

Santa Decca THE Gods are dead: no longer do we bring To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves! Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves, And in the noon the careless shepherds sing, For Pan is dead, and all the …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: San Miniato

San Miniato SEE, I have climbed the mountain side Up to this holy house of God, Where once that Angel-Painter trod Who saw the heavens opened wide, And throned upon the crescent moon The Virginal white Queen of Grace,– Mary! …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Salve Saturnia Tellus

Salve Saturnia Tellus I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned Italia, my Italia, at thy name: And when from out the mountain’s heart I came And saw the land for which my life had yearned, I laughed as …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Roses and Rue

Roses and Rue 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 passionate past that is fled Call back its dead, Could we live …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Rome Unvisited

Rome Unvisited I. THE corn has turned from grey to red, Since first my spirit wandered forth From the drear cities of the north, And to Italia’s mountains fled. And here I set my face towards home, For all my …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Requiescat

Requiescat TREAD lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Ravenna

Ravenna To my friend George Fleming author of ‘The Nile Novel’ and ‘Mirage’) I. A year ago I breathed the Italian air, – And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair,- These fields made golden with the flower of March, …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Quia Multum Amavi

Quia Multum Amavi   DEAR Heart I think the young impassioned priest When first he takes from out the hidden shrine His God imprisoned in the Eucharist, And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine, Feels not such awful …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Queen Henrietta Maria

Queen Henrietta Maria IN the lone tent, waiting for victory, She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain, Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain: The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky, War’s ruin, and the wreck …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Quantum Mutata

Quantum Mutata THERE was a time in Europe long ago When no man died for freedom anywhere, But England’s lion leaping from its lair Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so While England could a great Republic show. Witness …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Portia

Portia I MARVEL not Bassanio was so bold To peril all he had upon the lead, Or that proud Aragon bent low his head, Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold: For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold Which …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Phedre

Phedre (To Sarah Bernhardt) How vain and dull this common world must seem To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked At Florence with Mirandola, or walked Through the cool olives of the Academe: Thou should’st have gathered …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: PHDRE

PHDRE How vain and dull this common world must seem To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked At Florence with Mirandola, or walked Through the cool olives of the Academe: Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Panthea

  Panthea   NAY, let us walk from fire unto fire, From passionate pain to deadlier delight,– I am too young to live without desire, Too young art thou to waste this summer night Asking those idle questions which of …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde: Pan

  Pan 1. O goat-foot God of Arcady! This modern world is grey and old, And what remains to us of thee? No more the shepherd lads in glee Throw apples at thy wattled fold, O goat-foot God of Arcady! …

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A poem by Oscar Wilde : On Easter Day

On Easter Day The silver trumpets rang across the Dome: The people knelt upon the ground with awe: And borne upon the necks of men I saw, Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome. Priest-like, he wore a …

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