O stormy deep! -And, herald of my love to Him Who, waiting for the dawn, doth lie,The orbed maiden leaves the sky,And the white firs grow more dim.IV -Up sprang the sun to run his race,The breeze blew fair on meadow and lea,But in the west I seemed to seeThe likeness of a human face. yon silent evening star,The night's ambassador, doth gleam afar,And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold.Perchance before our inland seas of goldAre garnered by the reapers into sheaves,Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves,I may behold thy city; and lay downLow at thy feet the poet's laurel crown.Adieu! There are two that ride from the south and east,And two from the north and west,For the black raven a goodly feast,For the King's daughter rest. After writing in different forms throughout the 1880s, he became one of London's most popular playwrights in the early 1890s. He did not pass in purple pomp, Nor ride a moon-white steed. what had we doneTo have such a seneschal?At last I saw the shadowed bars,Like a lattice wrought in lead,Move right across the whitewashed wallThat faced my three-plank bed,And I knew that somewhere in the worldGod's dreadful dawn was red.At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,At seven all was still,But the sough and swing of a mighty wingThe prison seemed to fill,For the Lord of Death with icy breathHad entered in to kill.He did not pass in purple pomp,Nor ride a moon-white steed.Three yards of cord and a sliding boardAre all the gallows' need:So with rope of shame the Herald cameTo do the secret deed.We were as men who through a fenOf filthy darkness grope:We did not dare to breathe a prayer,Or to give our anguish scope:Something was dead in each of us,And what was dead was Hope.For Man's grim Justice goes its way,And will not swerve aside:It slays the weak, it slays the strong,It has a deadly stride:With iron heel it slays the strong,The monstrous parricide!We waited for the stroke of eight:Each tongue was thick with thirst:For the stroke of eight is the stroke of FateThat makes a man accursed,And Fate will use a running nooseFor the best man and the worst.We had no other thing to do,Save to wait for the sign to come:So, like things of stone in a valley lone,Quiet we sat and dumb:But each man's heart beat thick and quick,Like a madman on a drum!With sudden shock the prison-clockSmote on the shivering air,And from all the gaol rose up a wailOf impotent despair,Like the sound that frightened marshes hearFrom some leper in his lair.And as one sees most fearful thingsIn the crystal of a dream,We saw the greasy hempen ropeHooked to the blackened beam,And heard the prayer the hangman's snareStrangled into a scream.And all the woe that moved him soThat he gave that bitter cry,And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,None knew so well as I:For he who lives more lives than oneMore deaths than one must die.IVThere is no chapel on the dayOn which they hang a man:The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,Or his face is far too wan,Or there is that written in his eyesWhich none should look upon.So they kept us close till nigh on noon,And then they rang the bell,And the Warders with their jingling keysOpened each listening cell,And down the iron stair we tramped,Each from his separate Hell.Out into God's sweet air we went,But not in wonted way,For this man's face was white with fear,And that man's face was grey,And I never saw sad men who lookedSo wistfully at the day.I never saw sad men who lookedWith such a wistful eyeUpon that little tent of blueWe prisoners called the sky,And at every careless cloud that passedIn happy freedom by.But there were those amongst us allWho walked with downcast head,And knew that, had each got his due,They should have died instead:He had but killed a thing that lived,Whilst they had killed the dead.For he who sins a second timeWakes a dead soul to pain,And draws it from its spotted shroud,And makes it bleed again,And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,And makes it bleed in vain!Like ape or clown, in monstrous garbWith crooked arrows starred,Silently we went round and roundThe slippery asphalte yard;Silently we went round and round,And no man spoke a word.Silently we went round and round,And through each hollow mindThe Memory of dreadful thingsRushed like a dreadful wind,And Horror stalked before each man,And Terror crept behind.The Warders strutted up and down,And kept their herd of brutes,Their uniforms were spick and span,And they wore their Sunday suits,But we knew the work they had been at,By the quicklime on their boots.For where a grave had opened wide,There was no grave at all:Only a stretch of mud and sandBy the hideous prison-wall,And a little heap of burning lime,That the man should have his pall.For he has a pall, this wretched man,Such as few men can claim:Deep down below a prison-yard,Naked for greater shame,He lies, with fetters on each foot,Wrapt in a sheet of flame!And all the while the burning limeEats flesh and bone away,It eats the brittle bone by night,And the soft flesh by day,It eats the flesh and bone by turns,But it eats the heart alway.For three long years they will not sowOr root or seedling there:For three long years the unblessed spotWill sterile be and bare,And look upon the wondering skyWith unreproachful stare.They think a murderer's heart would taintEach simple seed they sow.It is not true! Is this the end of all that primal force Which, in its changes being still the same, From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course, Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame, Till the suns met in heaven and began Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and the Word was Man! After his release, he packed up what little he had and went into exile in, France held a special place in Wilde’s heart, his play, Wilde lived out his last days in the Hôtel d’Alsace in the, Wilde may have lived in poverty in the years before he dies, but nowadays he is loved by the French people. and the cryOf Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty,Is heard in lordly Genoa, and whereThe marble spires of Milan wound the air,Rings from the Alps to the Sicilian shore,And Dante's dream is now a dream no more.But thou, Ravenna, better loved than all,Thy ruined palaces are but a pallThat hides thy fallen greatness! -I laid the flowers where He lies(Warm leaves and flowers on the stones):What joy I had to sit aloneTill evening broke on tired eyes: -Till all the shifting clouds had spunA robe of gold for God to wearAnd into seas of purple airSank the bright galley of the sun.V -Shall I be gladdened for the day,And let my inner heart be stirredBy murmuring tree or song of bird,And sorrow at the wild winds' play? Requiescat, Oscar Wilde's tribute to his sister Isola. The novel tells the story of a young, attractive man named Dorian Gray. 'No things of air these antics were,That frolicked with such glee:To men whose lives were held in gyves,And whose feet might not go free,Ah! Oscar Wilde portrait byNapoleon Sarony – WikiCommons. He was also a virulent racist. while we spake the earth did turn away Her visage from the God, and Hecate's boat Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day Blew all its torches out: I did not note The waning hours, to young Endymions Time's palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!-- Mark how the yellow iris wearily Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly, Who, like a blue vein on a girl's white wrist, Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night, Which 'gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light. (There is blood on the river sand.) leave it for a subtle memory Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun, When April laughed between her tears to see The early primrose with shy footsteps run From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold, Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering gold. Funny Poet: Oscar Wilde. Go! London: T. Werner Laurie, 1907. Oscar Wilde was an Irish poet and playwright, best known for work such as The Picture of Dorian Gray and The Importance of Being Earnest. A Short Biography. We were as men who through a fen Of filthy darkness grope: We did not dare to breathe a prayer, Or to give our anguish scope: Something was dead in each of us, And what was dead was Hope. It was a dream, the glade is tenantless, No soft Ionian laughter moves the air, The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness, And from the copse left desolate and bare Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry, Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody So sad, that one might think a human heart Brake in each separate note, a quality Which music sometimes has, being the Art Which is most nigh to tears and memory, Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear? The Death of Oscar Wilde - 30 th November 1900 - "My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or other of us has got to go." These were reportedly the last words of Oscar Wilder before he died of meningitis in a seedy Paris bedsit, penniless, on 30 th November 1900. But though lean Hunger and green Thirst Like asp with adder fight, We have little care of prison fare, For what chills and kills outright Is that every stone one lifts by day Becomes one's heart by night. But there were those amongst us all Who walked with downcast head, And knew that, had each got his due, They should have died instead: He had but killed a thing that lived, Whilst they had killed the dead. Two new poems, 'Désespoir' and 'Pan,' which I have recently discovered in manuscript, are now printed for the first time. speak ye hills Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills, Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century! Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page, And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair, With net and spear and hunting equipage Let young Adonis to his tryst repair, But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel. surely hereA man might dwell apart from troublous fear,Watching the tide of seasons as they flowFrom amorous Spring to Winter's rain and snow,And have no thought of sorrow; - here, indeed,Are Lethe's waters, and that fatal weedWhich makes a man forget his fatherland.Ay! One or other of us has got to go." These were reportedly the last words of Oscar Wilder before he died of meningitis in a seedy Paris bedsit, penniless, on 30 th November 1900. and soon with passion-wearied face Through the cool leaves Apollo's lad will come, The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom, And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride, After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride. Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed In wonder at her feet, not for the sake Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take. Her Voice Oscar Wilde ~ THE wild bee reels from bough to bough With his furry coat and his gauzy wing. In 1884, Wilde married a woman named Constance Lloyd, whom he had 2 children with. Wilde became fluent in both French and German early on. France held a special place in Wilde’s heart, his play Salomé was actually first written in French! O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto's tower, Thou marble lily of the lily town! Adieu! And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen, And the old pilot bade the trembling crew Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen Close to the stern a dim and giant form, And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm. It was as if Numidian javelins Pierced through and through his wild and whirling brain, And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins In exquisite pulsation, and the pain Was such sweet anguish that he never drew His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew. And when the light-foot mower went afield Across the meadows laced with threaded dew, And the sheep bleated on the misty weald, And from its nest the waking corn-crake flew, Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem, Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said, 'It is young Hylas, that false runaway Who with a Naiad now would make his bed Forgetting Herakles,' but others, 'Nay, It is Narcissus, his own paramour, Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.' Literature too took a front seat as there were novelists, poets, essayist, critic and playwrights who made Victorian era the period of thriving literature. He does not rise in piteous haste To put on convict-clothes, While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes Each new and nerve-twitched pose, Fingering a watch whose little ticks Are like horrible hammer-blows. Nay, though thou art a God, be not so coy, For in yon stream there is a little reed That often whispers how a lovely boy Lay with her once upon a grassy mead, Who when his cruel pleasure he had done Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun. and I the dying boy will see Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell That overweighs the jacinth, and to me The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell, And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes, And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies! This is due in part to the enduring beauty of Wilde's poetry and prose as well as to the timeless insights the works . Sir William was a renowned surgeon who found himself embroiled in a sensational scandal in 1864 when Mary Travers, a former patient, informed a local newspaper that she had been chloroformed and raped. Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows, The woods of white Colonos are not here, On our bleak hills the olive never blows, No simple priest conducts his lowing steer Up the steep marble way, nor through the town Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown. Each comedy mocked the Victorian society, making fun of London's social hierarchy and the masks worn by the Upper Crust — the social class composed of the wealthiest members of society. They hanged him as a beast is hanged: They did not even toll A requiem that might have brought Rest to his startled soul, But hurriedly they took him out, And hid him in a hole. in those meadows is there peaceWhere, girdled with a silver fleece,As a bright shepherd, strays the moon? Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour, The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind, And straggling traveller's joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind. Do you want to learn more about the many famous authors and artists that once called Paris home? Oscar Wilde was an Irish writer that lived and worked in London and Paris in the 19th century. Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin, Ireland, on October 16, 1854. Found inside – Page 701896 January 8 (Wed) Death of Paul Verlaine. ... The Revue blanche publishes AD's 'Introduction to my Poems, with Some Remarks on the Oscar Wilde Case'. ?13 ... Wilde was a socialist, an anarchist, an aesthetic and a gay man in Victorian England. O think of it! and I will wear the leopard skin, And steal the moonéd wings of Ashtaroth, Upon whose icy chariot we could win Cithæron in an hour e'er the froth Has overbrimmed the wine-vat or the Faun Ceased from the treading! This evidence included homoerotic sections of his published works, and love letters he penned addressed to Lord Alfred. No name is more inextricably bound to the aesthetic movement of the 1880s and 1890s in England than that of Oscar Wilde. He lay withyou beside the Nile!The river-horses in the slime trumpeted whenthey saw him comeOdorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared withspikenard and with thyme.He came along the river bank like some tallgalley argent-sailed,He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty,and the waters sank.He strode across the desert sand: he reachedthe valley where you lay:He waited till the dawn of day: then touchedyour black breasts with his hand.You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame:you made the horned god your own:You stood behind him on his throne: you calledhim by his secret name.You whispered monstrous oracles into thecaverns of his ears:With blood of goats and blood of steers youtaught him monstrous miracles.White Ammon was your bedfellow! October 16, 1854 girdled with a silver fleece, As a bright shepherd strays. Wilde & # x27 ; s tribute to his sister Isola about the many famous authors and artists that called. 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