Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde

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Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde (16 October 1854 – 30 November 1900) was an Irish poet and playwright. After writing in different forms throughout the 1880s, the early 1890s saw him become one of the most popular playwrights in London.
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Endymion

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OR
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HE 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...
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Greece

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The sea was sapphire coloured, and the
Burned like a heated opal through the air;
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie
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To My Wife With a Copy of My Poems

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I can write no stately
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poemI would dare to say
For if of these fallen
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The True Knowledge

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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
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My Voice

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IN this restless, hurried, modern world We took our hearts' full pleasure;
You and I, And now the white sails of our ship are furled, And spent the lading of our argosy
Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan, For very weeping is m...
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From Spring Days to Winter For Music

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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,
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Symphony In Yellow

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An omnibus across the
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there a
Shows like a little restless midge
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La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente

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My limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For, calling on my Lady's name,
My lips have now forgot to sing
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Flower of Love

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Sweet,
I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clayI had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day
From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer s...
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E Tenebris

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ME down,
O Christ, and help me
reach thy hand,            For I am drowning in a stormier sea            Than Simon on thy lake of Galilee:
The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
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Roses and Rue

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Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too
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Les Silhouettes

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The sea is flecked with bars of grey,
The dull dead wind is out of tune,
And like a withered leaf the
Is blown across the stormy bay
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Impression Du Matin

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HE Thames nocturne of blue and gold Changed to a Harmony in grey: A barge with ochre-coloured hay Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold The yellow fog came creeping down The bridges, till the houses' walls Seemed changed to shadows, and St
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Les Ballons

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Against these turbid turquoise
The light and luminous
Dip and drift like satin
Drift like silken butterflies;
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Impression - Le Reveillon

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The sky is laced with fitful red,
The circling mists and shadows flee,
The dawn is rising from the sea,
Like a white lady from her bed
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Sonnet To Liberty

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OT that I love thy children, whose dull
See nothing save their own unlovely woe,
Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,—But that the roar of thy Democracies,
Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,
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