I. By the Arno
- Oscar Wilde The oleander on the wall Grows crimson in the dawning light, Though the grey shadows of the night Lie yet on Florence like a pall. The dew is bright upon the hill, And bright the blossoms overhead, But ah! the grasshoppers have fled, The little Attic song is still. Only the leaves are gently stirred By the soft breathing of the gale, And in the almond-scented vale The lonely nightingale is heard. The day will make thee silent soon, O nightingale sing on for love! While yet upon the shadowy grove Splinter the arrows of the moon. Before across the silent lawn In sea-green vest the morning steals, And to love's frightened eyes reveals The long white fingers of the dawn. Fast climbing up the eastern sky To grasp and slay the shuddering night, All careless of my heart's delight, Or if the nightingale should die. II. Hateful is the dark-blue sky - Alfred, Lord Tennyson Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labor be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? And things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence – ripen, fall, and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. III. Flower in a crannied wall - Alfred, Lord Tennyson Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies;-- Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower—but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. IV. O powerful western fallen star! - Walt Whitman O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night—O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear’d—O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. |
V. Apologia
- Oscar Wilde Is it thy will that I should wax and wane, Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey, And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day? Is it thy will That my Soul's House should be a tortured spot Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not? Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure, And sell ambition at the common mart, And let dull failure be my vestiture, And sorrow dig its grave within my heart. Perchance it may be better so I have not made my heart a heart of stone, Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast, Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown. Many a man hath done so; sought to fence In straitened bonds the soul that should be free, Trodden the dusty road of common sense, While all the forest sang of liberty, Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air, To where the steep untrodden mountain height Caught the last tresses of the Sun God¹s hair. Or how the little flower he trod upon, The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold, Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun Content if once its leaves were aureoled. But surely it is something to have been The best belovèd for a little while, To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen His purple wings flit once across thy smile. Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion feed On my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars, Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars! VI. When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d - Walt Whitman When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love. |