Poems, with The Ballad of Reading Gaol. Wilde OscarЧитать онлайн книгу.

      This mighty empire hath but feet of clay:

         Of all its ancient chivalry and might

         Our little island is forsaken quite:

      Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,

      And from its hills that voice hath passed away

         Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,

         Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit

      For this vile traffic-house, where day by day

         Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart,

         And the rude people rage with ignorant cries

      Against an heritage of centuries.

         It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art

         And loftiest culture I would stand apart,

      Neither for God, nor for his enemies.

      It is full summer now, the heart of June;

         Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir

      Upon the upland meadow where too soon

         Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,

      Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,

      And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

      Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,

         That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on

      To vex the rose with jealousy, and still

         The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,

      And like a strayed and wandering reveller

      Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s messenger

      The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,

         One pale narcissus loiters fearfully

      Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid

         Of their own loveliness some violets lie

      That will not look the gold sun in the face

      For fear of too much splendour, – ah! methinks it is a place

      Which should be trodden by Persephone

         When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!

      Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!

         The hidden secret of eternal bliss

      Known to the Grecian here a man might find,

      Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.

      There are the flowers which mourning Herakles

         Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,

      Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze

         Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,

      That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,

      And lilac lady’s-smock, – but let them bloom alone, and leave

      Yon spirèd hollyhock red-crocketed

         To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,

      Its little bellringer, go seek instead

         Some other pleasaunce; the anemone

      That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl

      Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl

      Their painted wings beside it, – bid it pine

         In pale virginity; the winter snow

      Will suit it better than those lips of thine

         Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go

      And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,

      Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.

      The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus

         So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet

      Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous

         As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet

      Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar

      For any dappled fawn, – pluck these, and those fond flowers which are

      Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon

         Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,

      That morning star which does not dread the sun,

         And budding marjoram which but to kiss

      Would sweeten Cytheræa’s lips and make

      Adonis jealous, – these for thy head, – and for thy girdle take

      Yon curving spray of purple clematis

         Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,

      And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,

         But that one narciss which the startled Spring

      Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard

      In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird,

      Ah! leave it for a subtle memory

         Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,

      When April laughed between her tears to see

         The early primrose with shy footsteps run

      From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,

      Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering gold.

      Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet

         As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!

      And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet

         Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,

      For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride

      And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.

      And I will cut a reed by yonder spring

         And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan

      Wonder what young intruder dares to sing

         In these still haunts, where never foot of man

      Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy

      The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.

      And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears

         Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,

      And