|
|
I stood by the unvintageable sea
Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray;
The long red fires of the dying day
Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-05 |
Rating: 5.00
Votes: 2 |
|
|
|
The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-05 |
Rating: 3.67
Votes: 3 |
|
|
|
|
Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,
Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-05 |
Rating: 5.00
Votes: 1 |
|
|
|
There was a time in Europe long ago
When no man died for freedom anywhere,
But England's lion leaping from its lair
Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-05 |
Rating: 5.00
Votes: 1 |
|
|
Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings
When far away upon a barbarous strand,
In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,
Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-05 |
Rating: 5.00
Votes: 1 |
|
|
Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away
From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers;
This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours
Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-05 |
Rating: 3.00
Votes: 2 |
|
|
The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a Harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-04 |
Rating: 5.00
Votes: 1 |
|
|
This mighty empire hath but feet of clay:
Of all its ancient chivalry and might
Our little island is forsaken quite:
Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-04 |
Rating: 0.00
Votes: 0 |
|
|
I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned,
Italia, my Italia, at thy name:
And when from out the mountain's heart I came
And saw the land for which my life had yearned,
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-03 |
Rating: 2.00
Votes: 1 |
|
|
Albeit nurtured in democracy,
And liking best that state republican
Where every man is Kinglike and no man
Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see,
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-03 |
Rating: 0.00
Votes: 0 |
|
|
Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen
Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride
From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!
Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-02 |
Rating: 5.00
Votes: 1 |
|
|
Was this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-02 |
Rating: 0.00
Votes: 0 |
|
|
Set in this stormy Northern sea,
Queen of these restless fields of tide,
England! what shall men say of thee,
Before whose feet the worlds divide?
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-02 |
Rating: 0.00
Votes: 0 |
|
|
Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes
See nothing save their own unlovely woe,
Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know, -
But that the roar of thy Democracies,
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-02 |
Rating: 2.00
Votes: 1 |
|
|
The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-04-01 |
Rating: 0.00
Votes: 0 |
|
|
Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy
The sons of God fought in that great emprise?
Why dost thou walk our common earth again?
Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-03-26 |
Rating: 0.00
Votes: 0 |
|
|
This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-02-21 |
Rating: 4.00
Votes: 1 |
|
|
Within this restless, hurried, modern world
We took our hearts' full pleasure--You and I,
And now the white sails of our ship are furled,
And spent the lading of our argosy.
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-01-19 |
Rating: 5.00
Votes: 2 |
|
|
Alily-girl, not made for this world's pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
|
by Oscar Wilde
at 2008-01-19 |
Rating: 5.00
Votes: 1 |
|
|
|
