Oscar Wilde (1854–1900)

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A

Albeit nurtured in democracy

A lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain

A ring of gold and a milk-white dove

As oftentimes the too resplendent sun

As one who poring on a Grecian urn

C

Christ, dost thou live indeed? or are thy bones

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand

D

Dear Heart I think the young impassioned priest

E

Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings

H

He did not wear his scarlet coat

Her ivory hands on the ivory keys

He was a Grecian lad, who coming home

How steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are

How vain and dull this common world must seem

I

I am weary of lying within the chase

I can write no stately proem

I marvel not Bassanio was so bold

In the lone tent, waiting for victory

I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned

Is it thy will that I should wax and wane

I stood by the unvintageable sea

Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen

It is full summer now, the heart of June

It is full Winter now: the trees are bare

I wandered in Scoglietto’s green retreat

L

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed

M

Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away

My limbs are wasted with a flame

N

Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire

Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring

Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes

O

Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly

O singer of Persephone!

R

Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain

Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been

S

See, I have climbed the mountain side

Set in this stormy Northern sea

Seven stars in the still water

Sweet I blame you not for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay

W

Was this His coming! I had hoped to see

Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy

Within this restless, hurried, modern world