THERE was a time in Europe long ago
When no man died for freedom anywhere,
But England's lion leaping from its lair
Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so
While England could a great Republic show.
...
I WANDERED in Scoglietto's green retreat,
The oranges on each o'erhanging spray
Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
...
THE corn has turned from grey to red,
Since first my spirit wandered forth
From the drear cities of the north,
And to Italia's mountains fled.
...
Under the rose-tree's dancing shade
There stands a little ivory girl,
Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl
With pale green nails of polished jade.
...
SEE, I have climbed the mountain side
Up to this holy house of God,
Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,
...
THE Gods are dead: no longer do we bring
To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!
Demeter's child no more hath tithe of sheaves,
...
OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly
And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown
From antique reeds to common folk unknown:
...
HE was a Grecian lad, who coming home
With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily
Stood at his galley's prow, and let the foam
Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,
And holding wave and wind in boy's despite
Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night
...
THIS mighty empire hath but feet of clay:
Of all its ancient chivalry and might
Our little island is forsaken quite:
Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,
...
TREAD lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
...
The seasons send their ruin as they go,
For in the spring the narciss shows its head
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
And in the autumn purple violets blow,
...
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.
...
WAS this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold
...
IT is full Winter now: the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The Autumn's gaudy livery whose gold
Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true
To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew
...
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,
...
MY limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For calling on my Lady's name
My lips have now forgot to sing.
...
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.
...
Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too long
...
WITHIN this restless, hurried, modern world
We took our hearts' full pleasure--You and I,
And now the white sails of our ship are furled,
And spent the lading of our argosy.
...
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in Dublin, the son of an eye-surgeon and a literary hostess and writer (known under the pseudonym "Speranza"). After studying at Trinity College, Dublin, Wilde went to Magdalen College, Oxford, where he achieved a double first and won the Newdigate prize for a poem Ravenna. While at Oxford he became notorious for his flamboyant wit, talent, charm and aestheticism, and this reputation soon won him a place in London society. Bunthorne, the Fleshly Poet in Gilbert and Sullivan's opera Patience was widely thought to be a caricature of Wilde (though in fact it was intended as a skit of Rosetti) and Wilde seems to have consciously styled himself on this figure. In 1882 Wilde gave a one year lecture tour of America, visiting Paris in 1883 before returning to New York for the opening of his first play Vera. In 1884 he married and had two sons, for whom he probably wrote his first book of fairy tales, The Happy Prince. The next decade was his most prolific and the time when he wrote the plays for which he is best remembered. His writing and particularly his plays are epigramatic and witty and Wilde was not afraid to shock. This period was also haunted by accusations about his personal life, chiefly prompted by the Marquess of Queensberry's fierce opposition to the intense friendship between Wilde and her son, Lord Alfred. These accusations culminated in 1895 in Wilde's imprisonment for homosexual offences. While in prison, Wilde was declared bankrupt, and after his release he lived on the generosity of friends. From prison he wrote a long and bitter letter to Lord Alfred, part of which was afterwards published as De Profundis, but after his release he wrote nothing but the poem The Ballad of Reading Gaol.)
Quantum Mutata
THERE was a time in Europe long ago
When no man died for freedom anywhere,
But England's lion leaping from its lair
Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so
While England could a great Republic show.
Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care
Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair
The Pontiff in his painted portico
Trembled before our stern ambassadors.
How comes it then that from such high estate
We have thus fallen, save that Luxury
With barren merchandise piles up the gate
Where nobler thoughts and deeds should enter by:
Else might we still be Milton's heritors.
He was a literary genius. I enjoy his poetry immensely. Conspirative Nature stole his life prematurely.
Every person has some genius-ness in his cells... brain...hands or body... Needs the chance to appear Needs the luck... You have...I have As small as it can be Even very small It is still geniusty...!
His imagery and diction, everything is so extravagant and incredible. He will always remain as one of my favorites.
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He suffered a lot in jail, merely because of his sexual orientation. Today that is not a crime. I think the Wilde wrote carefully-structured stanzas, which are musical and memorable.
There's nothing in the world like the devotion of a married woman. It's a thing no married man knows anything about.
As a wicked man I am a complete failure. Why, there are lots of people who say I have never really done anything wrong in the whole course of my life. Of course they only say it behind my back.
Who is that man over there? I don't know him. What is he doing? Is he a conspirator? Have you searched him? Give him till tomorrow to confess, then hang him!—hang him!
Gossip is charming! History is merely gossip. But scandal is gossip made tedious by morality.
If you pretend to be good, the world takes you very seriously. If you pretend to be bad, it doesn't. Such is the astounding stupidity of optimism.
They are horribly tedious when they are good husbands, and abominably conceited when they are not.
She is absolutely inadmissible into society. Many a woman has a past, but I am told that she has at least a dozen, and that they all fit.
My experience is that as soon as people are old enough to know better, they don't know anything at all.
It is only the superficial qualities that last. Man's deeper nature is soon found out.
A kiss may ruin a human life.
All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his.
I adore political parties. They are the only place left to us where people don't talk politics.
Women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are. That is the difference between the two sexes.
Mr. Whistler always spelt art, and we believe still spells it, with a capital "I."
A man's very highest moment is, I have no doubt at all, when he kneels in the dust, and beats his breast, and tells all the sins of his life.
I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself.
Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
What is said of a man is nothing. The point is, who says it.
Nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner.
Only mediocrities progress. An artist revolves in a cycle of masterpieces, the first of which is no less perfect than the last.
He had that curious love of green, which in individuals is always the sign of a subtle artistic temperament, and in nations is said to denote a laxity, if not a decadence of morals.
Cultivated leisure is the aim of man.
Society often forgives the criminal; it never forgives the dreamer.
A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?
I was disappointed in Niagara—most people must be disappointed in Niagara. Every American bride is taken there, and the sight of the stupendous waterfall must be one of the earliest, if not the keenest, disappointments in American married life.
His work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative British artist.
There is no necessity to separate the monarch from the mob; all authority is equally bad.
The condition of perfection is idleness: the aim of perfection is youth.
The basis of optimism is sheer terror.
I can't help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand other people having the same faults as ourselves.
Formerly we used to canonise our heroes. The modern method is to vulgarise them. Cheap editions of great books may be delightful, but cheap editions of great men are absolutely detestable.
The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray.
When liberty comes with hands dabbled in blood it is hard to shake hands with her.
Twenty years of romance makes a woman look like a ruin; but twenty years of marriage makes her look like a public building.
Most of our modern portrait painters are doomed to absolute oblivion. They never paint what they see. They paint what the public sees, and the public never sees anything.
It is only the modern that ever becomes old-fashioned.
The critic has to educate the public; the artist has to educate the critic.
Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon. Only people who can't get into it do that.
A man who can dominate a London dinner table can dominate the world. The future belongs to the dandy. It is the exquisites who are going to rule.
Though one can dine in New York, one could not dwell there.
I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often convincing.
The Americans are certainly hero-worshippers, and always take their heroes from the criminal classes.
Children begin by loving their parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.
On the whole, the great success of marriage in the States is due partly to the fact that no American man is ever idle, and partly to the fact that no American wife is considered responsible for the quality of her husband's dinners.
The amount of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one's clean linen in public.
There is nothing so difficult to marry as a large nose.
One knows so well the popular idea of health. The English country gentleman galloping after a fox—the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.
The liar at any rate recognizes that recreation, not instruction, is the aim of conversation, and is a far more civilised being than the blockhead who loudly expresses his disbelief in a story which is told simply for the amusement of the company.
You should study the Peerage, Gerald. It is the one book a young man about town should know thoroughly, and it is the best thing in fiction the English have ever done.
Wilde cryptic word spinning to somewhere in nowhere. He was no genius, a bewildered poet who thought he was a genius. Did the poem liberate him or anyone from its cage of flowery words bespeckled with Greek gods and goddesses? I tend to doubt it. A love for his own intellect, displayful of a pruriant pride in pining.