The Romantic Way

Oscar Wilde was really known more for his plays than his romantic poems. Titles like Lady Windemere's Fan, The Importance of Being Earnest, and his only novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, conjure up memories of Oscar Wilde's incredibly engaging writing.

If a writer could live the stereotype of the tragic, writerly life, Oscar Wilde has done it. A father of two and husband, Wilde's writing success tragically ended when he was accused and convicted of homosexuality, an imprisonable crime then in England. After two years of hard labor in prison, Oscar Wilde wrote only one more poem, then died at the age of 46, penniless.

To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems

Serenade

Her Voice

Poem: Roses And Rue

To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems

Oscar Wilde
I can write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals
One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.

Serenade

Oscar Wilde
The western wind is blowing fair
   Across the dark Ægean sea,
And at the secret marble stair
   My Tyrian galley waits for thee.
Come down! the purple sail is spread,
   The watchman sleeps within the town,
O leave thy lily-flowered bed,
   O Lady mine come down, come down!

She will not come, I know her well,
   Of lover's vows she hath no care,
And little good a man can tell
   Of one so cruel and so fair.
True love is but a woman's toy,
   They never know the lover's pain,
And I who loved as loves a boy
   Must love in vain, must love in vain.

O noble pilot tell me true
   Is that the sheen of golden hair?
Or is it but the tangled dew
   That binds the passion-flowers there?
Good sailor come and tell me now
   Is that my Lady's lily hand?
Or is it but the gleaming prow,
   Or is it but the silver sand?

No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew,
   'Tis not the silver-fretted sand,
It is my own dear Lady true
   With golden hair and lily hand!
O noble pilot steer for Troy,
   Good sailor ply the labouring oar,
This is the Queen of life and joy
   Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!

The waning sky grows faint and blue,
   It wants an hour still of day,
Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,
   O Lady mine away! away!
O noble pilot steer for Troy,
   Good sailor ply the labouring oar,
O loved as only loves a boy!
   O loved for ever evermore!

Her Voice

Oscar Wilde
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
     'Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done;
     Love's web is spun.

Look upward where the poplar trees
   Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
   Scatters the thistledown, but there
     Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
     And the wave-lashed leas.

Look upward where the white gull screams,
   What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
   On some outward voyaging argosy, -
     Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
     How sad it seems.

Sweet, there is nothing left to say
   But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
   Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
     Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
     And so we may.

And there is nothing left to do
   But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
   I have my beauty, - you your Art,
     Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
     Like me and you.

Poem: Roses And Rue

Oscar Wilde
(To L. L.)
Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too long.

Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
Were it worth the pain!

I remember we used to meet
By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird;

And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird's throat
With its last big note;

And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed;

And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.

You were always afraid of a shower,
Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.

I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
Little wings to your feet.

I remember your hair - did I tie it?
For it always ran riot -
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
These things are old.

I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain;

And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From your shoulders rose.

And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face -
Had a small tear left a stain?
Or was it the rain?

On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry,

'You have only wasted your life.'
(Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.

Could we live it over again,
Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead!

Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
Poets' hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God's heaven and hell.

Yours along TheRomanticWay!


Rod & Holly