Flower Of Love Poem by Oscar Wilde

Flower Of Love

Rating: 3.6


Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common
clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the
larger day.

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
name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of
Fame.

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
mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the
dove,
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
past,
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
root,
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
wasted days,
I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
M Asim Nehal 03 May 2016

Wonderful poem, Indeed.

9 18 Reply
* Sunprincess * 07 February 2016

......a poem so beautifully penned with a pen dipped in the ink of romance ?

12 12 Reply
Francie Lynch 18 July 2014

Ah, Oscar. Had you lived today.

13 10 Reply
Pink princess 27 January 2018

Wow fully with so much romance

8 7 Reply
Ramesh T A 18 July 2010

So many things he says to write this poem! This clearly shows he was not in love at all in life!

2 12 Reply
Geeta Radhakrishna Menon 03 November 2021

Flower of love so lovely and charming........top stars

0 0 Reply
Kenneth Maswabi 03 November 2021

This an absolutely beautiful poem, very brilliantly composed. Thanks for sharing

0 0 Reply
Rose Marie Juan-austin 02 November 2021

A poetic gem. So beautifully crafted and executed. Timeless! ! !

0 0 Reply
Abdulazeez Garba Donkayours 02 November 2021

Nice one

0 0 Reply
Sylvia Frances Chan 02 November 2021

A true poem about life with many metaphors. Excellent poem with exploding words.

1 0 Reply
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Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde

Dublin / Ireland
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