2 min read
Слушать(AI)Hellas
To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?- Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll Scrawled over on some boyish holiday With idle songs for pipe and virelay Which do but mar the secret of the whole.
Surely that was a time I might have trod The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God; is that time dead? lo! with a little rod I did but touch the honey of romance- And must I lose a soul's inheritance?
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
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
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
The Harlots House
We caught the tread of dancing feet, We loitered down the moonlit street, And stopped beneath the harlot's house Inside, above the din and fray,
The True Knowledge
Thou knowest all; I seek in What lands to till or sow with seed -The land is black with briar and weed, Nor cares for falling tears or rain
Desespoir
The seasons send their ruin as they go, For in the spring the narciss shows its Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red, And in the autumn purple violets blow,