Oscar Wilde Short Poems

Oscar Wilde Short Poems

 

 

IN THE FOREST  

Out of the mid-wood's twilight

Into the meadow's dawn,

Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,

Flashes my Faun!

He skips through the copses singing,

And his shadow dances along,

And I know not which I should follow,

Shadow or song!

O Hunter, snare me his shadow!

O Nightingale, catch me his strain!

Else moonstruck with music and madness

I track him in vain!

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 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.
 

LE JARDIN  

The lily's withered chalice falls

Around its rod of dusty gold,

And from the beech-trees on the wold

The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

The gaudy leonine sunflower

Hangs black and barren on its stalk,

And down the windy garden walk

The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour.

Pale privet-petals white as milk

Are blown into a snowy mass:

The roses lie upon the grass

Like little shreds of crimson silk.

SYMPHONY IN YELLOW  

 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.

The True Knowledge  

 Thou knowest all; I seek in vain

What lands to till or sow with seed -

The land is black with briar and weed,

Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

Thou knowest all; I sit and wait

With blinded eyes and hands that fail,

Till the last lifting of the veil

And the first opening of the gate.

Thou knowest all; I cannot see.

I trust I shall not live in vain,

I know that we shall meet again

In some divine eternity.

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.

Impression - Le Reveillon  

 The sky is laced with fitful red,

The circling mists and shadows flee,

The dawn is rising from the sea,

Like a white lady from her bed.

And jagged brazen arrows fall

Athwart the feathers of the night,

And a long wave of yellow light

Breaks silently on tower and hall,

And spreading wide across the wold

Wakes into flight some fluttering bird,

And all the chestnut tops are stirred,

And all the branches streaked with gold.

La Fuite De La Lune  

 To outer senses there is peace,

A dreamy peace on either hand

Deep silence in the shadowy land,

Deep silence where the shadows cease.

Save for a cry that echoes shrill

From some lone bird disconsolate;

A corncrake calling to its mate;

The answer from the misty hill.

And suddenly the moon withdraws

Her sickle from the lightening skies,

And to her sombre cavern flies,

Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.

Les Silhouettes  

 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.

To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems  

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.

OSCAR WILDE

By Dorothy Parker

 

If, with the literate, I am

Impelled to try an epigram,

I never seek to take the credit;

We all assume that Oscar said it.

With A Copy Of A House Of Pomegranates  

Go, little book,

To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,

Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:

And bid him look

Into thy pages: it may hap that he

May find that golden maidens dance through thee.

Tristitiae  

 O well for him who lives at ease

With garnered gold in wide domain,

Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,

The crashing down of forest trees.

O well for him who ne'er hath known

The travail of the hungry years,

A father grey with grief and tears,

A mother weeping all alone.

But well for him whose foot hath trod

The weary road of toil and strife,

Yet from the sorrows of his life.

Builds ladders to be nearer God.

With affection,

Ruben