Flower of Love Poem by Oscar Wilde
Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the
From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.
Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.
I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.
And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of
I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.
Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in
And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;
Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.
For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.
Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? -
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.
Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.
And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.
Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God's own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.
I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in
I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.
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Comments about this poem (Flower of Love by Oscar Wilde )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Harlem [Dream Deferred], Langston Hughes
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe