By the Arno by 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 mist 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.

At Verona by Oscar Wilde

How steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are
    For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,
    And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound’s table,—better far
That I had died in the red ways of war,
    Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,
    Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.

“Curse God and die: what better hope than this?
    He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
    Of his gold city, and eternal day”—
Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars
    I do possess what none can take away,
    My love, and all the glory of the stars.

Greece by Oscar Wilde

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky
Burned like a heated opal through the air;
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye
Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak,
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.
The flapping of the sail against the mast,
The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls' laughter at the stern,
The only sounds:- when 'gan the West to burn,
And a red sun upon the seas to ride,
I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

Apologia by 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—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?

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—at least
     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 God’s 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!

The Grave of Keats by Oscar Wilde

Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain,
     He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue:
     Taken from life when life and love were new
The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,
Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.
     No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,
     But gentle violets weeping with the dew
Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.
O proudest heart that broke for misery!
     O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!
     O poet-painter of our English Land!
     Thy name was writ in water——it shall stand:
     And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,
     As Isabella did her Basil-tree.

The Grave of Shelley by Oscar Wilde

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed
Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;
Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.
And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,
In the still chamber of yon pyramid
Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,
Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.

Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb
Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb
In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,
Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom
Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep

Sonnet to Liberty by Oscar Wilde

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,
Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,
Mirror my wildest passions like the sea,—
And give my rage a brother——! Liberty!
For this sake only do thy dissonant cries
Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings
By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades
Rob nations of their rights inviolate
And I remain unmoved—and yet, and yet,
These Christs that die upon the barricades,
God knows it I am with them, in some things.

A Vision by Oscar Wilde

Two crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone
     With no green weight of laurels round his head,
    But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
    And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
    Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
    Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
    Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame
I cried to Beatricé, “Who are these?”
And she made answer, knowing well each name,
    “Æschylos first, the second Sophokles,
    And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.”

Magdalen Walks by Oscar Wilde

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.

A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
    The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,
    The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
    And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
    And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
    Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
    And the gloom of the wych-elm's hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
    Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
    And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.

She Walks in Beauty by George, Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Dedication: To My Dear Children by Anne Bradstreet

This Book by Any yet unread,
I leave for you when I am dead,
That, being gone, here you may find
What was your liveing mother’s mind.
Make use of what I leave in Love
And God shall blesse you from above.

The Sea to the Shore by L. M. Montgomery

Lo, I have loved thee long, long have I yearned and entreated!
Tell me how I may win thee, tell me how I must woo.
Shall I creep to thy white feet, in guise of a humble lover ?
Shall I croon in mild petition, murmuring vows anew ?

Shall I stretch my arms unto thee, biding thy maiden coyness,
Under the silver of morning, under the purple of night ?
Taming my ancient rudeness, checking my heady clamor­
Thus, is it thus I must woo thee, oh, my delight?

Nay, 'tis no way of the sea thus to be meekly suitor­
I shall storm thee away with laughter wrapped in my beard of snow,
With the wildest of billows for chords I shall harp thee a song for thy bridal,
A mighty lyric of love that feared not nor would forego!

With a red-gold wedding ring, mined from the caves of sunset,
Fast shall I bind thy faith to my faith evermore,
And the stars will wait on our pleasure, the great north wind will trumpet
A thunderous marriage march for the nuptials of sea and shore.