Poems, with The Ballad of Reading Gaol. Оскар Уайльд

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,

       Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.

      The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus

       So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet

       Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous

       As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet

       Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar

       For any dappled fawn—pluck these, and those fond flowers which are

      Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon

       Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,

       That morning star which does not dread the sun,

       And budding marjoram which but to kiss

       Would sweeten Cytheræa’s lips and make

       Adonis jealous—these for thy head—and for thy girdle take

      Yon curving spray of purple clematis

       Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,

       And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,

       But that one narciss which the startled Spring

       Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard

       In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird,

      Ah! leave it for a subtle memory

       Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,

       When April laughed between her tears to see

       The early primrose with shy footsteps run

       From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,

       Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering gold.

      Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet

       As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!

       And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet

       Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,

       For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride

       And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.

      And I will cut a reed by yonder spring

       And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan

       Wonder what young intruder dares to sing

       In these still haunts, where never foot of man

       Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy

       The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.

      And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears

       Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,

       And why the hapless nightingale forbears

       To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone

       When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,

       And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.

      And I will sing how sad Proserpina

       Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,

       And lure the silver-breasted Helena

       Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,

       So shalt thou see that awful loveliness

       For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss!

      And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale

       How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,

       And hidden in a grey and misty veil

       Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun

       Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase

       Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.

      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.

      Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,

       They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;

       Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile

       Is better than a thousand victories,

       Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo

       Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few

      Who for thy sake would give their manlihood

       And consecrate their being; I at least

       Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,

       And in thy temples found a goodlier feast

       Than this starved age can give me, spite of all

       Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.

      Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,

       The woods of white Colonos are not here,

       On our bleak hills the olive never blows,

       No simple priest conducts his lowing steer

       Up the steep marble way, nor through the town

       Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.

      Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,

       Whose very name should be a memory

       To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest

       Beneath the Roman walls, and melody

       Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play

       The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.

      Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left

       One silver voice to sing his threnody,

       But СКАЧАТЬ