Category: Oscar Wilde

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 

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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, 
    

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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, 
    

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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 

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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 

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by Oscar Wilde

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