Oscar Wilde Poems
|82.||The True Knowledge||1/3/2003|
|83.||The Grave Of Keats||5/18/2001|
|85.||Sonnet To Liberty||5/18/2001|
|86.||Holy Week At Genoa||1/3/2003|
|91.||By The Arno||5/18/2001|
|93.||To My Wife||1/3/2003|
|94.||The Harlot's House||1/3/2003|
|100.||In The Forest||1/3/2003|
|103.||Symphony In Yellow||1/3/2003|
|106.||Ava Maria Plena Gratia||5/18/2001|
|107.||The Ballad Of Reading Gaol||5/18/2001|
|109.||Flower Of Love||1/3/2003|
Flower Of Love
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,
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.
The red leaves fall upon the mould,
The white leaves flutter, one by one,
Down to a blue bowl where the sun,
Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.