T. R. Smith, comp. Poetica Erotica: Rare and Curious Amatory Verse. 1921–22.
The Dryad
By Oscar Wilde (1854–1900)(From Charmides, 1881) I WAS the Attic shepherd’s trysting place, | |
| Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay, | |
| And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase | |
| The timorous girl, till tired out with play | |
| She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair, | 5 |
| And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare. | |
| Then come away unto my ambuscade | |
| Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy | |
| For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade | |
| Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify | 10 |
| The dearest rites of love, there in the cool | |
| And green recesses of its farthest depth there is a pool, | |
| The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage, | |
| For round its rim great creamy lilies float | |
| Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage, | 15 |
| Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat | |
| Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid | |
| To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was made | |
| For lovers such as we, the Cyprian Queen, | |
| One arm around her boyish paramour, | 20 |
| Strays often there at eve, and I have seen | |
| The moon strip off her misty vestiture | |
| For young Endymion’s eyes, be not afraid, | |
| The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade. | |
| Nay if thou wil’st, back to the beating brine, | 25 |
| Back to the boisterous billow let us go, | |
| And walk all day beneath the hyaline | |
| Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico, | |
| And watch the purple monsters of the deep | |
| Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap. | 30 |
| For if my mistress find me lying here | |
| She will not ruth of gentle pity show, | |
| But lay her boat-spear down, and with austere | |
| Relentless fingers string the cornel bow, | |
| And draw the feathered notch against her breast, | 35 |
| And loose the archèd cord, ay, even now upon the quest | |
| I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake, | |
| Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at least | |
| Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake | |
| My parchèd being with the nectarous feast | 40 |
| Which even Gods affect! O come Love come, | |
| Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home. | |
| Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees | |
| Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air | |
| Grew conscious of a God, and the grey seas | 45 |
| Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare | |
| Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed, | |
| And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade. | |
| And where the little flowers of her breast | |
| Just brake into their milky blossoming, | 50 |
| This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest, | |
| Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering, | |
| And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart, | |
| And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart. | |
| Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry | 55 |
| On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid, | |
| Sobbing for incomplete virginity, | |
| And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead, | |
| And all the pain of things unsatisfied, | |
| And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side. | 60 |
| Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan, | |
| And very pitiful to see her die | |
| Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known | |
| The joy of passion, that dread mystery | |
| Which not to know is not to live at all, | 65 |
| And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly thrall. | |