Category Oscar Wilde

To drift with every passion till my soulIs a stringed lute on which can winds can play,Is it for this that I have given awayMine ancient wisdom and austere control?Methinks my life is a twice-written scrollScrawled over on some boyish…

1        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 feathered larch,The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by,The little…

I can write no stately proemAs a prelude to my lay;From a poet to a poemI would dare to say. For if of these fallen petalsOne to you seem fair,Love will waft it till it settlesOn your hair. And when…