- On and onI galloped, racing with the setting sun,And ere the crimson after-glow was passed,I stood within Ravenna's walls at last!II.How strangely still! Thou wert not born as common women are! Talk tous about God and it will suffice us. Is it thy will--Love that I love so well-- That my Soul's House should be a tortured spot Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not? was found Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand A little seed, which sown in English ground Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear, And spread rich odors through our springtide air.With such strange arts this flower did allure That all forgotten was the asphodel, And the brown bee, the lily's paramour, Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell, For not a thing of earth it seemed to be, But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white At its own beauty, hung across the stream, The purple dragon-fly had no delight With its gold-dust to make his wings a-gleam, Ah! The almond groves of Samarcand, Bokhara, where red lilies blow, And Oxus, by whose yellow sand The grave white-turbaned merchants go: And on from thence to Ispahan, The gilded garden of the sun, Whence the long dusty caravan Brings cedar and vermilion; And that dread city of Cabool Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet, Whose marble tanks are ever full With water for the noonday heat: Where through the narrow straight Bazaar A little maid Circassian Is led, a present from the Czar Unto some old and bearded khan,-- Here have our wild war-eagles flown, And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; But the sad dove, that sits alone In England--she hath no delight. Man's deeper nature is soon found out. Spirit of Beauty! from thy high estate,O city trammelled in the toils of Fate,Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days,But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays!Yet who beneath this night of wars and fears,From tranquil tower can watch the coming years;Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring,Or why before the dawn the linnets sing?Thou, even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the roseTo crimson splendour from its grave of snows;As the rich corn-fields rise to red and goldFrom these brown lands, now stiff with Winter's cold;As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star!O much-loved city! methinks it is a place Which should be trodden by Persephone When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis! if such there be then it were well For us to fly his anger: nay, but see The leaves are stirring: let us watch a-while. And overhead the curlews cry, Where through the dusky upland grass The young brown-throated reapers pass, Like silhouettes against the sky. What is it that I see in your eyes? For our high Gods have sick and wearied grown Of all our endless sins, our vain endeavour For wasted days of youth to make atone By pain or prayer or priest, and never, never, Hearken they now to either good or ill, But send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will. “Epigrams”, p.94, BoD – Books on Demand, Oscar Wilde (2007). Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air; No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair, Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep. for love of him Already the shrill lark is out of sight, Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,-- Ah! well-a-day,See at her silent feet I layA dove with broken wings!Ah, Love! Sooner or later one comes to that dreadful universal thing called human nature. The hidden secret of eternal bliss Known to the Grecian here a man might find, Ah! Have no fear. And if my flute can breathe sweet melody, We may behold Her face who long ago Dwelt among men by the Ægean sea, And whose sad house with pillaged portico And friezeless wall and columns toppled down Looms o'er the ruins of that fair and violet-cinctured town. that thou wert slain -Fond Dove, fond Dove return again! It was for thee that young Sarpedôn died, And Memnôn's manhood was untimely spent; It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried With Thetis' child that evil race to run, In the last year of thy beleaguerment; Ay!

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