Oscar Wilde

(1854-1900 / Dublin / Ireland)

Oscar Wilde Poems

1. The House Of Judgement 4/1/2010
2. We Are Made One with What We Touch and See 4/20/2015
3. The Artist 2/9/2015
4. Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring 5/6/2015
5. Queen Henrietta Maria 5/18/2001
6. Louis Napoleon 5/18/2001
7. Tadium Vita 5/18/2001
8. Quia Multum Amavi 5/18/2001
9. Theocritus 5/18/2001
10. On The Massacre Of The Christians In Bulgaria 1/3/2003
11. Libertatis Sacra Fames 5/18/2001
12. Tristitiae 1/3/2003
13. Impression Du Voyage 5/18/2001
14. Salve Saturnia Tellus 1/3/2003
15. Sonnet Written In Holy Week At Genoa 12/31/2002
16. Quantum Mutata 5/18/2001
17. To Milton 5/18/2001
18. Impressions I. Les Silhouettes 5/18/2001
19. Impressions Ii. La Fuite De La Lune 5/18/2001
20. Santa Decca 5/18/2001
21. Le Reveillon 5/18/2001
22. The Burden Of Itys 5/18/2001
23. Fabien Dei Franchi 5/18/2001
24. Les Ballons 1/3/2003
25. The Dole Of The King's Daughter (Breton) 1/3/2003
26. Le Panneau 1/3/2003
27. Le Jardin Des Tuileries 1/3/2003
28. The Disciple 4/1/2010
29. On The Sale By Auction Of Keats' Love Letters 1/3/2003
30. On Easter Day 1/3/2003
31. The Doer Of Good 4/1/2010
32. Taedium Vitae 1/3/2003
33. Urbs Sacra Æterna 5/18/2001
34. Phedre 1/3/2003
35. Portia 5/18/2001
36. Pan 1/3/2003
37. The New Helen 5/18/2001
38. Sonnet On Approaching Italy 5/18/2001
39. Magdalen Walks 5/18/2001
40. San Miniato 5/18/2001
Best Poem of Oscar Wilde

Her Voice

THE wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
I made that vow,

Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun,--
It shall be, I said, for eternity
...

Read the full of Her Voice

Rome Unvisited

I.
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.

And here I set my face towards home,
For all my pilgrimage is done,
Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun

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