For me the cypress and the rue, Finest of all is rosemary! For round the temple rolled the clang of arms, And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear, And the air quaked with dissonant alarums Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear, And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed, And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade. No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls. Else moonstruck with music and madnessI track him in vain! Though many an unsung elegy Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold, O goat-foot God of Arcady! The Warders with their shoes of felt Crept by each padlocked door, And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, Grey figures on the floor, And wondered why men knelt to pray Who never prayed before. How my heart leaps upTo think of that grand living after deathIn beast and bird and flower, when this cup,Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for breath,And with the pale leaves of some autumn dayThe soul earth's earliest conqueror becomes earth's last greatprey. He did not pass in purple pomp, Nor ride a moon-white steed. The plot itself lumbers along at a glacial pace, and the ending leaves the reader feeling cold. And with your curved archaic smile you watched his passion come and go.
Nobody's life is easy, however, and at the height of his success, Wilde was plucked from his literary throne and imprisoned for two years. Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan, And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed, And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran Like a young fawn unto an olive wood Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood; And sought a little stream, which well he knew, For oftentimes with boyish careless shout The green and crested grebe he would pursue, Or snare in woven net the silver trout, And down amid the startled reeds he lay Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day. Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe, And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate. Or was it the rain? Their copyright has expired, which means they can be used freely and reproduced in any manner by anyone without the need for permission. And we two lovers shall not sit afar, Critics of nature, but the joyous sea Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star Shoot arrows at our pleasure! For where a grave had opened wide, There was no grave at all: Only a stretch of mud and sand By the hideous prison-wall, And a little heap of burning lime, That the man should have his pall. The Gods are dead: no longer do we bring To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves! Coffin-board, heavy stone,Lie on her breast,I vex my heart alone,She is at rest. A narrow bed for me to lie, White, O white, is the hemlock flower! There never does that dreary north-wind blowWhich leaves our English forests bleak and bare,Nor ever falls the swift white-feathered snow,Nor ever doth the red-toothed lightning dareTo wake them in the silver-fretted nightWhen we lie weeping for some sweet sad sin, some dead delight.
I pass unto a life more barren, more austere. Promised a golden future as ruler of Scotland by three sinister witches, Macbeth murders the king in order to succeed to the throne. There is blood upon her hand Why are the lilies flecked with red? He skips through the copses singing, And his shadow dances along, And I know not which I should follow, Shadow or song! If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb Come down, O Son of Man! Oscar Wilde 1854-1900 was born in Dublin to unconventional parents. His first and only novel, , was published in 1891 and received quite a negative response. I, only I, must wander wearily,And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was an Irish playwright, poet, and author of numerous short stories, and one novel. And when wind and winter harden All the loveless land, It will whisper of the garden, You will understand. It is only right at the end, the very last poem, that you can take any joy from the writing. Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows, The woods of white Colonos are not here, On our bleak hills the olive never blows, No simple priest conducts his lowing steer Up the steep marble way, nor through the town Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown. This week, the audio book version of Oscar Wilde's Oscar Wilde: The Poems has made it into the top 50 bestsellers in the Poetry category.
These top poems are the best examples of oscar wilde poems. He feels as if his entire life, everything he was, is now buried in the earth at his feet. Each poem is remarkable and will touch the core of your heart. Oscar Wilde is best known for his plays, but he also wrote poems. The rhythm of this moving poem is slow and gently tilting, it reminds you of a slow funeral procession and takes place at the grave side of a young innocent girl. The troubled plumes of midnight were The plumes upon a hearse: And bitter wine upon a sponge Was the savour of Remorse. Then, turning to my love, I said, 'The dead are dancing with the dead, The dust is whirling with the dust,' But she - she heard the violin, And left my side, and entered in: Love passed into the house of lust.
With beat of systole and of diastoleOne grand great life throbs through earth's giant heart,And mighty waves of single Being rollFrom nerveless germ to man, for we are partOf every rock and bird and beast and hill,One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we kill. To outer senses there is peace, A dreamy peace on either hand Deep silence in the shadowy land, Deep silence where the shadows cease. Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here to slake your thirst? Requiescat was written at seven years after his sister, Isola, died 23 February 1867 , less than two months before her 10th birthday. 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. We rarely think of his poetry. O how my heart with boyish passion burned, When far away across the sedge and mere I saw that Holy City rising clear, Crowned with her crown of towers! 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 grass their bodies slept.
Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown From antique reeds to common folk unknown: And often launched our bark upon that sea Which the nine Muses hold in empery, And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam, Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home Till we had freighted well our argosy. Look upward where the poplar trees Sway and sway in the summer air, Here in the valley never a breeze Scatters the thistledown, but there Great winds blow fair From the mighty murmuring mystical seas, And the wave-lashed leas. Written with inspired poetic intensity and sudden flowerings of the matchless wit for which he is so well remembered, the stories combine the wisdom of parables with the impact of drama. Most of this collection is hard work and difficult to enjoy, and had this not been a 30p book from a charity shop, I would have felt robbed. It is one of our. It is a sombre and saddening piece, beautifully crafted work which evokes a strong sense of sympathy in its readership.
Each poem is remarkable and will touch the core of your heart. O that some antique statue for one hour Might wake to passion, and that I could charm The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair, Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair! For some are by the Delhi walls, And many in the Afghan land, And many where the Ganges falls Through seven mouths of shifting sand. And suddenly the moon withdraws Her sickle from the lightening skies, And to her sombre cavern flies, Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze. It is just a shame that this peak is so quickly over. And some in Russian waters lie, And others in the seas which are The portals to the East, or by The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. He came along the river bank like some tall galley argent-sailed, He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty, and the waters sank. O for the secret of the Colchian shrine! For from the East there came a mighty cry, And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty, And called him from Ravenna: never knight Rode forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight! From lower cells of waking life we passTo full perfection; thus the world grows old:We who are godlike now were once a massOf quivering purple flecked with bars of gold,Unsentient or of joy or misery,And tossed in terrible tangles of some wild and wind-swept sea.