Delphi Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Illustrated) (87 page)
Read Delphi Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Illustrated) Online
Authors: OSCAR WILDE
Helas
To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all 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 that 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?
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 knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone
She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
Avignon
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 one who some great prize had earned:
And musing on the story of thy fame
I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame
The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned
The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,
And in the orchards every twining spray
Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:
But when I knew that far away at Rome
In evil bonds a second Peter lay,
I wept to see the land so very fair.
Turin
An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
Nettles and poppy mar each rock - hewn seat:
No poet crowned with olive deathlessly
Chant his glad song, nor clamorous Tragedy
Startles the air green corn is waving sweet
Where once the Chorus danced to measures fleet
Far to the East a purple stretch of sea,
The cliffs of gold that prisoned Danae
And desecrated Argos at my feet.
No season now to mourn the days of old,
A nation’s shipwreck on the rocks of Time,
Or the dread storms of all - devouring Fate,
For now the peoples clamour at our gate,
The world is full of plaque and sin and crime,
And God Himself is half - dethroned for Gold!
Sen Artysty; Or, The Artist’s Drea
m
By MADAME HELENA MODJESKA.
(Translated from the Polish by Oscar Wilde.)
TOO have had my dreams : ay, known indeed
The crowded visions of a fiery youth
Which haunt me still.
Methought that once I lay.
Within some garden close, what time the Spring
Breaks like a bird from Winter, and the sky
Is sapphire-vaulted. The pure air was soft,
And the deep grass I lay on soft as air.
The strange and secret life of the young trees
Swelled in the green and tender bark, or burst
To buds of sheathed emerald ; violets
Peered from their nooks of hiding, half afraid
Of their own loveliness ; the vermeil rose
Opened its heart, and the bright star-flower
Shone like a star of morning. Butterflies,
In painted liveries of brown and gold.
Took the shy bluebells as their pavilions
And seats of pleasaunce ; overhead a bird
Made snow of all the blossoms as it. flew
To charm the woods with singing: the whole world
Seemed waking to delight !
And yet — and yet —
My soul was filled with leaden heaviness :
I had no joy in Nature; what to me,
Ambition’s slave, was crimson-stained rose,
Or the gold- sceptred crocus? The bright bird
Sang out of tune for me, and the sweetflowers
Seemed but a pageant, and an unreal show
That mocked my heart ; for, like the fabled snake
That stings itself to anguish, so I lay,
Self-tortured, self tormented.
The day crept
Unheeded on the dial, till the sun
Dropt, purple-sailed, into the gorgeous East,
When, from the fiery heart of that great orb,
Came One whose shape of beauty far outshone
The most bright vision of this common earth.
Girt was she in a robe more white than flame.
Or furnace-heated brass; upon her head
She bare a laurel crown, and like a star
That falls from the high heaven suddenly,
Passed to my side.
Then kneeling low, I cried,
‘Oh, much -desired! Oh, long- waited for !
Immortal Glory ! Great world-conqueror !
Oh, let me not die crownless ; once, at least.
Let thine imperial laurels bind my brows,
Ignoble else. Once let the clarion-note
And trump of loud ambition sound my name,
And for the rest I care not.”
Then to me,
In gentle voice, the angel made reply :
“ Child ignorant of the true happiness.
Nor knowing life’s best wisdom, thou wert made
For light, and love, and laughter; not to waste
Thy youth in shooting arrows at the sun,
Or nurturing that ambition in thy soul
Whose deadly poison will infect thy heart.
Marring all joy and gladness ! Tarry here,
In the sweet confines of this garden-close.
Whose level meads and glades delectable
Invite for pleasure ; the wild bird that wakes
These silent dells with sudden melody
Shall be thy playmate ; and each flower that blows
Shall twine itself unbidden in thy hair —
Garland more meet for thee than the dread weight
Of Glory’s laurel -wreath.”
‘‘Ah! fruitless gifts,”
I cried, unheeding of her prudent word,
“Are all such mortal flowers, whose brief lives
Are bounded by the dawn and setting sun.
The anger of the noon can wound the rose.
And the rain rob the crocus of its gold ;
But thine immortal coronal of Fame,
Thy crown of deathless laurel, this alone
Age cannot harm, nor winter’s icy tooth
Pierce to its hurt, nor common things profane.”
No answer made the angel, but her face
Dimmed with the mists of pity.
Then methought
That from mine eyes, wherein ambition’s torch
Burned with its latest and most ardent flame,
Flashed forth two level beams of straightened light.
Beneath whose fulgent fires the laurel crown
Twisted and curled, as when the Sirian star
Withers the ripening corn, and one pale leaf
Fell on my brow ; and I leapt up and felt
The mighty pulse of Fame, and heard far off
The sound of many nations praising me !
One fiery-coloured moment of great life !
And then — how barren was the nations’ praise !
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!
Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,
And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
II
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
See, I have climbed the mountain side
Up to this holy house of God,
Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who say the heavens opened wide,
And throned upon the crescent moon
The Virginal white Queen of Grace, —
Mary! could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.
O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!
My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.
O crowned by, God with love and flame!
O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
O listen ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.
Against these turbid turquoise skies
The light and luminous balloons
Dip and drift like satin moons,
Drift like silken butterflies;
Reel with every windy gust,
Rise and reel like dancing girls,
Float like strange transparent pearls,
Fall and float like silver dust.
Now to the low leaves they cling,
Each with coy fantastic pose,
Each a petal of a rose
Straining at a gossamer string.
Then to the tall trees they climb,
Like thin globes of amethyst,
Wandering opals keeping tryst
With the rubies of the lime.
Was this his coming! I had hoped to see
A scene wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
Or a dread vision as when Semele
Sickening for love and unappeased desire
Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire
Caught her white limbs and slew her utterly:
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
Before this supreme mystery of Love:
A kneeling girl with passionless pale face,
An angel with a lily in his hand,
And over both with outstretched wings the Dove.
Florence
To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poem
s
I can write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.
For if of these fallen petals
One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
On your hair.
And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.