Oscar Wilde was born on a day like today in 1854. Considered one of the most prominent playwrights of Victorian London, he was also a great writer to whom we have dedicated several articles here. But his poetic facet is much less well known. So, to recover or discover it, here are 4 poems of his work to remember him.
Oscar Wilde — 4 poems
Despair
The seasons shed their ruin as they pass, For in spring the daffodils raise their faces Till the roses bloom in fiery flame; And in the fall the purple violets sprout When the brittle crocus stirs up the winter snow, But the decrepit young trees will be reborn, And this gray land will grow green with the summer dew, And children will run through an ocean of brittle primroses. But what life, whose bitter voracity Tears our heels, watching the night without sun, Will encourage the hope of those days that will no longer return? Ambition, love, and all the feelings that burn Die too soon, and we only find bliss The withered remains of some dead memory.
Under the balcony
O beautiful crimson-mouthed star! O golden-browed moon! They rise, they rise from the fragrant south! They illuminate the path of my love, So that her delicate feet may not lose their way In the wind that rushes down the hill. O beautiful crimson-mouthed star! O golden-browed moon!
Oh, boat that you shake in the desolate sea! Oh, ship with wet, white sails! Come back, come back to the port for me! For my love and I long to go To the land where daffodils blow Over the heart of a purple valley! Oh, boat that you shake in the desolate sea! Oh, ship with wet, white sails!
Oh fleeting bird of bass, sweet notes! Oh, bird that rests in the dew! Sing, sing with your soft voice in the void! My love in her little bed will listen to you, raise her head from the pillow and follow my path! Oh fleeting bird of bass, sweet notes! Oh, bird that rests in the dew!
Oh, flower that hangs in the tremulous air! Oh, flower of snowy lips! Come down, come down to the hair of my love! You have to die on his head like a crown, You have to die in a fold of his clothes, In the small brightness of his heart you have to rest! Oh, flower that hangs in the tremulous air! Oh, flower of snowy lips!
My voice
Within this restless, fast-paced, modern world, We tear all the pleasure out of our hearts, you and me. Now the white sails of our ship billow steady, But the time for boarding is past.
My cheeks have withered before their time, So much was the crying that joy has fled from me, Pain has painted my lips white, And Ruin dances in the curtains of my bed.
But all this tumultuous life has been for you No more than a lyre, a mourning, A subtle musical spell, Or perhaps the melody of a sleeping ocean, The repetition of an echo.
Death in life
The vilest deeds, like poisonous herbs, flourish well in the prison air: it is only that which is good in man that is wasted and withers there: pale anguish guards the heavy door, and the guardian is the despair.
For they starve the frightened little child until it cries both day and night: and they whip the weak, they whip the fool, they mock the gray old man, and some go mad, and all goes bad, and no words can be heard. tell.
Every cramped cell we live in is a filthy, dark latrine, and the fetid breath of living death chokes every pinstripe suit, and everything but lust turns to dust in the machine of humanity.
