Collected Poems E-Book

Oscar Wilde

• Herausgeber: Oscar Wilde
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Poet and dramatist, son of Sir William Wilde, the eminent surgeon, was born at Dublin, and educated there at Trinity College and at Oxford. Known for his barbed wit, he was one of the most successful playwrights of late Victorian London, and one of the greatest celebrities of his day. He was one of the founders of the modern cult of the æsthetic. Among his writings are Poems [1881], The Picture of Dorian Gray, a novel, and several plays, including Lady Windermere's Fan, A Woman of no Importance, and The Importance of being Earnest.

Leseprobe

Collected Poems

by

Oscar Wilde

Table of Contents

Ravenna

Miscellaneous Poems The True Knowledge A Lament Wasted Days Lotus Leaves Impressions Under the Balcony A Fragment Le Jardin Des Tuileries Sonnet The New Remorse An Inscription The Harlot’s House

The Burden of Itys

Charmides

Eleutheria Sonnet to Liberty Ave Imperatrix To Milton Louis Napoleon Sonnet Quantum Mutata Libertatis Sacra Fames Theoretikos

Flowers of Gold Impressions The Grave of Keats Theocritus In the Gold Room Ballade De Marguerite The Dole of the King’s Daughter Amor Intellectualis Santa Decca A Vision Impression De Voyage The Grave of Shelley By the Arno

Flower or Love

The Fourth Movement Impression At Verona Apologia Quia Multum Amavi Silentium Amoris Her Voice My Voice Taedium Vitae

The Garden of Eros

Humanitad

Panthea

Rosa Mystica Helas Requiescat Salve Saturnia Tellus San Miniato Ave Maria Plena Gratia Italia Sonnet Rome Unvisited Urbs Sacra Aeterna Sonnet Easter Day E Tenebris Vita Nuova Madonna Mia The New Helen

Impressions De Theatre Fabien Dei Franchi Phedre I. — Portia II. — Queen Henrietta Maria III. Camma

Wind Flowers Impression Du Matin Magdalen Walks Athanasia Serenade Endymion La Bella Donna Del Mia Mente Chanson

The Sphinx

The Ballad of Reading Gaol

Ravenna

[1878]

I

A year ago I breathed the Italian air —

And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair —

These fields made golden with the flower of March,

The throstle singing on the fathered larch,

The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by,

The little clouds that race across the sky;

And fair the violet’s gentle drooping head,

The primrose, pale for love uncomforted,

The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar,

The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire

Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring);

And all the flowers of oar English Spring,

Fond snow-drops, and the bright-starred daffodil.

Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill,

And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew;

And down the river, like a flame of blue,

Keene as an arrow flies the water-king,

While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.

A year ago! — it seems a little time

Since last I saw that lordly southern clime,

Where flower and fruit to purple radiance blow,

And like bright lamps the fabled apples grow.

Full Spring it was — and by rich flowing vines,

Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines,

I rode at will; the moist glad air was sweet,

The white road rang beneath my horse’s feet,

And musing on Ravenna’s ancient name,

I watched the day till, marked with wounds of flame,

The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.

O how my heart with boyish passion burned,

When far away across the sedge and mere

I saw that Holy City rising clear,

Crowned with her crown of towers! — On and on

I galloped, racing with the setting sun,

And ere the crimson after-glow was passed,

I stood within Ravenna’s walls at last!

II

How strangely still! no sound of life or joy

Startles the air! no laughing shepherd-boy

Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the day

Comes the glad sound of children at their play:

O sad, and sweet, and silent! surely here

A man might dwell apart from troublous fear,

Watching the tide of seasons as they flow

From amorous Spring to Winter’s rain and snow,

And have no thought of sorrow; — here, indeed,

Are Lethe’s waters, and that fatal weed

Which makes a man forget his fatherland.

Ay! amid lotus-meadows dost thou stand,

Like Proserpine, with poppy-laden head,

Guarding the holy ashes of the dead.

For though thy brood of warrior sons hath ceased,

Thy noble dead are with thee! — they at least

Are faithful to thine honour:— guard them well,

O childless city! for a mighty spell,

To wake men’s hearts to dream of things sublime,

Are the lone tombs where rest the Great of Time.

III

Yon lonely pillar, rising on the plain,

Marks where the bravest knight of France was slain —