Poems by Oscar Wilde

I cannot write a majestic proem

as a prelude to my song,

from poet to poem,

I would dare to say.

Well if these fallen petals

one would seem beautiful to you,

love will go through the air

until it stops in your hair.

And when the wind and winter get tough

all the earth without love,

something from the garden will whisper

and you will understand.

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With every passion adrift until my soul

be a lute on whose strings all the winds play.

For this i gave up

to my ancient wisdom and my austere control?

My life is a palimpsest

scrawled on some boy's vacation

with idle songs for flute and rondo

that only hide the secret at all.

By the way, there was a time when I dared to step on

the sunny heights and the dissonances of life

I struck clear chords to reach God's ear.

Is that time dead? See, with my little stick

I barely touched the honey of romance

And should I lose the inheritance of a soul?

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It was a sapphire sea and the sky

it burned in the air like a red-hot opal;

we hoisted our sail; the wind blew well

towards the blue lands in the East.

From my high bow I spotted Zakynthos:

every olive grove, every cove,

The escarpments of Ithaca, the white peak of Lycaon,

and flowers scattered on the hills of Arcadia.

The beat of the sail against the mast,

the sound of the waves against the hull,

murmur of young laughter at the stern,

all that was heard, as the West began to burn.

And a red sun rode the seas.

At last he was on Greek soil.

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