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Roses and Rue

Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,

Were it worth the pleasure,

We never could learn love's song,

We are parted too

Could the passionate past that is

Call back its dead,

Could we live it all over again,

Were it worth the pain!

I remember we used to

By an ivied seat,

And you warbled each pretty

With the air of a bird;

And your voice had a quaver in it,

Just like a linnet,

And shook, as the blackbird's

With its last big note;

And your eyes, they were green and

Like an April day,

But lit into

When I stooped and kissed;

And your mouth, it would never

For a long, long while,

Then it rippled all over with

Five minutes after.

You were always afraid of a shower,

Just like a flower:

I remember you started and

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

That beat at the dripping

In the warm June rain;

And the colour of your gown,

It was amber-brown,

And two yellow satin

From the shoulders rose.

And the handkerchief of French

Which you held to your face-Had a small tear left a stain?

Or was it the rain?

On your hand as it waved

There were veins of blue;

In your voice as it said

Was a petulant cry,"You have only wasted your life."(Ah, that was the knife!)When I rushed through the garden

It was all too late.

Could we live it over again,

Were it worth the pain,

Could the passionate past that is

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

That the brain can

In a tiny ivory

God's heaven and hell.

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Oscar Wilde

Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde (16 October 1854 – 30 November 1900) was an Irish poet and playwright. After writing in different forms thr…
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