Poems by Oscar Wilde Part 11

SEVEN stars in the still water, And seven in the sky; Seven sins on the King's daughter, Deep in her soul to lie.

Red roses are at her feet, (Roses are red in her red-gold hair) And O where her bosom and girdle meet Red roses are hidden there.

Fair is the knight who lieth slain Amid the rush and reed, See the lean fishes that are fain Upon dead men to feed.

Sweet is the page that lieth there, (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,) See the black ravens in the air, Black, O black as the night are they.

What do they there so stark and dead?

(There is blood upon her hand) Why are the lilies flecked with red?

(There is blood on the river sand.)

There are two that ride from the south and east, And two from the north and west, For the black raven a goodly feast, For the King's daughter rest.

There is one man who loves her true, (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!) He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew, (One grave will do for four.)

No moon in the still heaven, In the black water none, The sins on her soul are seven, The sin upon his is one.

AMOR INTELLECTUALIS

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.

Of which despoiled treasures these remain, Sordello's pa.s.sion, and the honeyed line Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine Driving his pampered jades, and more than these, The seven-fold vision of the Florentine, And grave-browed Milton's solemn harmonies.

SANTA DECCA

THE G.o.ds are dead: no longer do we bring To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!

Demeter's child no more hath t.i.the of sheaves, And in the noon the careless shepherds sing, For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning By secret glade and devious haunt is o'er: Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more; Great Pan is dead, and Mary's son is King.

And yet-perchance in this sea-tranced isle, Chewing the bitter fruit of memory, Some G.o.d lies hidden in the asphodel.

Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well For us to fly his anger: nay, but see, The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile.

CORFU.

A VISION

TWO crowned Kings, and One that stood alone With no green weight of laurels round his head, But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan For sins no bleating victim can atone, And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.

Girt was he in a garment black and red, And at his feet I marked a broken stone Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.

Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame, I cried to Beatrice, 'Who are these?'

And she made answer, knowing well each name, 'aeschylos first, the second Sophokles, And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.'

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 prow I marked with quickening eye Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek, Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak, And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.

The flapping of the sail against the mast, The ripple of the water on the side, The ripple of girls' laughter at the stern, The only sounds:-when 'gan the West to burn, And a red sun upon the seas to ride, I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

KATAKOLO.

THE GRAVE OF Sh.e.l.lEY

LIKE burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone; Here doth the little night-owl make her throne, And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.

And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red, In the still chamber of yon pyramid Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid, Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.

Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep, But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb In the blue cavern of an echoing deep, Or where the tall s.h.i.+ps founder in the gloom Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.

ROME.

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 blossoms overhead, But ah! the gra.s.shoppers 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 shadowy grove Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn In sea-green vest the morning 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.

IMPRESSIONS DE THeaTRE

FABIEN DEI FRANCHI

TO MY FRIEND HENRY IRVING

THE silent room, the heavy creeping shade, The dead that travel fast, the opening door, The murdered brother rising through the floor, The ghost's white fingers on thy shoulders laid, And then the lonely duel in the glade, The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore, Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o'er,- These things are well enough,-but thou wert made For more august creation! frenzied Lear Should at thy bidding wander on the heath With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear Pluck Richard's recreant dagger from its sheath- Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare's lips to blow!

PHeDRE