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Oscar Wilde - On Hearing The Dies Iræ Sung In The Sistine Chapel
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Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring, 
   Sad olive-groves, or sliver-breasted dove, 
   Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love 
Than terrors of red flame and thundering. 
The empurpled vines dear memories of Thee bring: 
   A bird at evening flying to its nest, 
   Tells me of One who had no place of rest: 
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing. 
Come rather on some autumn afternoon, 
   When red and brown are burnished on the leaves, 
   And the fields echo to the gleaner`s song, 
Come when the splendid fulness of the moon 
   Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves, 
  And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.
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