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Oscar Wilde - The Garden Of Eros
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. IT is full summer now, the heart of June,
     Not yet the sun-burnt reapers are a-stir
   Upon the upland meadow where too soon
     Rich autumn time, the season`s usurer,
   Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
   And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

   Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,
     That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
   To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
     The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,                         


   And like a strayed and wandering reveller
   Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June`s messenger

   The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,
     One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
   Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
     Of their own loveliness some violets lie
   That will not look the gold sun in the face
   For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a place

   Which should be trodden by Persephone
     When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!                    


   Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!
     The hidden secret of eternal bliss
   Known to the Grecian here a man might find,
   Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.

   There are the flowers which mourning Herakles
     Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,
   Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze
     Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,
   That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,
   And lilac lady`s-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and leave       


   Yon spired holly-hock red-crocketed
     To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,
   Its little bellringer, go seek instead
     Some other pleasaunce; the anemone
   That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
   Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl

   Their painted wings beside it,—bid it pine
     In pale virginity; the winter snow
   Will suit it better than those lips of thine
     Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go                       


   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 fox-gloves 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 vail 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 fearfuly 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 a-while,
     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 ah! too soon of it we were bereft
     When on that riven night and stormy sea                         


   Panthea claimed her singer as her own,
   And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone,

   Save for that fiery heart, that morning star
     Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye
   Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
     The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy
   Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring
   The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,

   And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,
    And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot                            


   In passionless and fierce virginity
     Hunting the tuskéd boar, his honied lute
   Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
   And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.

   And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,
     And sung the Galilæan`s requiem,
   That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
     He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
   Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,
   And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.         


   Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,
     It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
   The star that shook above the Eastern hill
     Holds unassailed its argent armoury
   From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—
   O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,

   Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer`s child,
     Dear heritor of Spenser`s tuneful reed,
   With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
     The weary soul of man in troublous need,                        


   And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
   Has brought fair flowers meet to make an earthly paradise.

   We know them all, Gudrun the strong men`s bride,
     Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
   How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
     And what enchantment held the king in thrall
   When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
   That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,

   Long listless summer hours when the noon
     Being enamoured of a damask rose                                


   Forgets to journey westward, till the moon
     The pale usurper of its tribute grows
   From a thin sickle to a silver shield
   And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field

   Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,
     At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
   Almost before the blackbird finds a mate
     And overstay the swallow, and the hum
   Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,
   Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,          


   And through their unreal woes and mimic pain
     Wept for myself, and so was purified,
   And in their simple mirth grew glad again;
     For as I sailed upon that pictured tide
   The strength and splendour of the storm was mine
   Without the storm`s red ruin, for the singer is divine,

   The little laugh of water falling down
     Is not so musical, the clammy gold
   Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
     Has less of sweetness in it, and the old                        


   Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady
   Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.

   Spirit of Beauty tarry yet a-while!
     Although the cheating merchants of the mart
   With iron roads profane our lovely isle,
     And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,
   Ay! though the crowded factories beget
   The blind-worm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!

   For One at least there is,—He bears his name
     From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—                            


   Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
     To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,
   Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien`s snare,
   And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,

   Loves thee so well, that all the World for him
     A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,
   And Sorrow take a purple diadem,
     Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
   Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
   Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery                    


   Which Painters hold, and such the heritage
     This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,
   Being a better mirror of his age
     In all his pity, love, and weariness,
   Than those who can but copy common things,
   And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.

   But they are few, and all romance has flown,
     And men can prophesy about the sun,
   And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,
     Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,                    


   How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
   And that no more `mid English reeds a Naïad shows her head.

   Methinks these new Actæons boast too soon
     That they have spied on beauty; what if we
   Have analyzed the rainbow, robbed the moon
     Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,
   Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope
   Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!

   What profit if this scientific age
     Burst through our gates with all its retinue                    


   Of modern miracles! Can it assuage
     One lover`s breaking heart? what can it do
   To make one life more beautiful, one day
   More god-like in its period? but now the Age of Clay

   Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
     Hath borne again a noisy progeny
   Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
     Hurls them against the august hierarchy
   Which sat upon Olympus, to the Dust
   They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must          


   Repair for judgment, let them, if they can,
     From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,
   Create the new Ideal rule for man!
     Methinks that was not my inheritance;
   For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul
   Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.

   Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away
     Her visage from the God, and Hecate`s boat
   Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day
     Blew all its torches out: I did not note                        


   The waning hours, to young Endymions
   Time`s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!—

   Mark how the yellow iris wearily
     Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed
   By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,
     Who, like a blue vein on a girl`s white wrist,
   Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,
   Which `gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.

   Come let us go, against the pallid shield
     Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,                       


   The corn-crake nested in the unmown field
     Answers its mate, across the misty stream
   On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,
   And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,

   Scatters the pearléd dew from off the grass,
     In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,
   Who soon in gilded panoply will pass
     Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion
   Hung in the burning east, see, the red rim
   O`ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him      


   Already the shrill lark is out of sight,
     Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,—
   Ah! there is something more in that bird`s flight
     Than could be tested in a crucible!—
   But the air freshens, let us go,—why soon
   The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!
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