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