Not all the singers of a thousand years Can open English prisons.
No.
Though hell Opened for Tracian Orpheus, now the spell Of song and art is powerless as the tears That love has shed.
You that were full of fears,
And mean self-love, shall live to know full well That you yourselves, not he, were pitiable When you met mercy's voice with frowns or jeers.
And did you ask who signed the plea with you?
Fools!
It was signed already with the sign Of great dead men, of God-like Socrates,
Shakespeare and Plato and the Florentine Who conquered form.
And all your pretty crew Once, and once only, might have stood with these.
Sonnet, dedicated to those French men of letters (Messrs.
Zola,
Copee,
Sardou and others) who refused to compromise their spotless reputations or imperil their literary exclusiveness by signing a merciful petition in favour of Oscar Wilde.
