Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde was an Irish poet and playwright of the late Victorian era, known for his witty, decorative verse and his central role in the aesthetic movement. His poetry often explores themes of beauty, decadence, and suffering, most famously in 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol'. Biografía ↓Más ↓

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Oscar Wilde

Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)

I am weary of lying within the chase When the knights are meeting in market-place. Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down. But I would not go where the Squires ride, I would only walk by my Lady's side. Alack! and alack! thou art overbold, A Forester's son may not eat off gold. Will she love me the less that my Father is seen Each Martinmas day in a doublet green? Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie, Spindle and loom are not meet for thee. Ah, if she is working the arras bright I might ravel the threads by the fire-light. Perchance she is hunting of the deer, How could you follow o'er hill and mere?

Oscar Wilde

Easter Day

The silver trumpets rang across the Dome: The people knelt upon the ground with awe: And borne upon the necks of men I saw, Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome. Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: In splendour and in light the Pope passed home. My heart stole back across wide wastes of years To One who wandered by a lonely sea, And sought in vain for any place of rest: 'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest. I, only I, must wander wearily, And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.'

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To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems

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.

Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,

Seven stars in the still water, And seven in the sky; Seven sins on the King's daughter, Deep in her soul to lie.

Red roses are at her feet, (Roses are red in her red-gold hair) And O where her bosom and girdle meet Red roses are hidden there.

Fair is the knight who lieth slain Amid the rush and reed, See the lean fishes that are fain Upon dead men to feed.

Sweet is the page that lieth there, (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,) See the black ravens in the air, Black, O black as the night are they.

What do they there so stark and dead? (There is blood upon her hand) Why are the lilies flecked with red? (There is blood on the river sand.)

There are two that ride from the south and east, And two from the north and west, For the black raven a goodly feast, For the King's daughter rest.

There is one man who loves her true, (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!) He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew, (One grave will do for four.)

No moon in the still heaven, In the black water none, The sins on her soul are seven, The sin upon his is one.

ENDYMION (For music)

The apple trees are hung with gold, And birds are loud in Arcady, The sheep lie bleating in the fold, The wild goat runs across the wold, But yesterday his love he told, I know he will come back to me. O rising moon! O Lady moon! Be you my lover's sentinel, You cannot choose but know him well, For he is shod with purple shoon, You cannot choose but know my love, For he a shepherd's crook doth bear, And he is soft as any dove, And brown and curly is his hair.

The turtle now has ceased to call Upon her crimson-footed groom, The grey wolf prowls about the stall, The lily's singing seneschal Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all The violet hills are lost in gloom. O risen moon! O holy moon! Stand on the top of Helice, And if my own true love you see, Ah! if you see the purple shoon, The hazel crook, the lad's brown hair, The goat-skin wrapped about his arm, Tell him that I am waiting where The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.

The falling dew is cold and chill, And no bird sings in Arcady, The little fauns have left the hill, Even the tired daffodil Has closed its gilded doors, and still My lover comes not back to me. False moon! False moon! O waning moon! Where is my own true lover gone, Where are the lips vermilion, The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon? Why spread that silver pavilion, Why wear that veil of drifting mist? Ah! thou hast young Endymion Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!

Serenade (For Music)

The western wind is blowing fair Across the dark AEgean 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!

From Spring Days To Winter (For Music)

In the glad springtime when leaves were green, O merrily the throstle sings! I sought, amid the tangled sheen, Love whom mine eyes had never seen, O the glad dove has golden wings!

Between the blossoms red and white, O merrily the throstle sings! My love first came into my sight, O perfect vision of delight, O the glad dove has golden wings!

The yellow apples glowed like fire, O merrily the throstle sings! O Love too great for lip or lyre, Blown rose of love and of desire, O the glad dove has golden wings!

But now with snow the tree is grey, Ah, sadly now the throstle sings! My love is dead: ah! well-a-day, See at her silent feet I lay A dove with broken wings! Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain - Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!

Biografía

Oscar Wilde (1854–1900) was an Irish poet, playwright, and wit, a leading figure of the aesthetic movement in late 19th-century England. Born in Dublin, he gained early recognition for his poem 'Ravenna,' which won the Newdigate Prize at Oxford. His early verse collections, such as 'Poems' (1881), reflect pronounced aesthetic and classical influences, characterized by ornate imagery and a preoccupation with beauty, art, and sensuality. Later in his career, following personal tragedy and imprisonment, his poetry took on a more somber tone, exemplified by 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol,' a long narrative poem meditating on guilt, justice, and human compassion. Throughout his work, Wilde blended wit with deep feeling, often exploring the tensions between artifice and authenticity, pleasure and morality. Though his literary fame rests chiefly on his comedies and his novel 'The Picture of Dorian Gray,' his poetry contributed to the rich diversity of late Victorian letters. His flamboyant persona and dramatic downfall continue to color the reception of his work, yet the poems themselves reveal a meticulous craftsman engaged with the aesthetic and social currents of his time.

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