Oscar Wilde

(1854-1900 / Dublin / Ireland)

Oscar Wilde Poems

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

Santa Decca

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,
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.

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