Oscar Wilde (1854–1900).  Poems.  1881.

Index of First Lines

Albeit nurtured in democracy
A Lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain
Apple trees are hung with gold, The
A ring of gold and a milk-white dove
As oftentimes the too resplendent sun
As one who poring on a Grecian urn

Christ, dost thou live indeed? or are thy bones
Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand
Corn has turned from grey to red, The

Dear Heart I think the young impassioned priest

Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings

Gods are dead: no longer do we bring, The

Her ivory hands on the ivory keys
He was a grecian lad, who coming home
How steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are
How vain and dull this common world must seem

I am weary of lying within the chase
I marvel not Bassanio was so bold
In the lone tent, waiting for victory
I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned
Is it thy will that I should wax and wane
I stood by the unvintageable sea
Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen
It is full summer now, the heart of June
It is full Winter now: the trees are bare
I wandered in Scoglietto’s green retreat

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed
Little white clouds are racing over the sky, The

Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away
My limbs are wasted with a flame

Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire
Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring
Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes

Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly
Oleander on the wall, The
O Singer of Persephone!

Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain
Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been

Sea is flecked with bars of grey, The
Sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky, The
See, I have climbed the mountain side
Set in this stormy Northern sea
Seven stars in the still water
Silent room, the heavy creeping shade, The
Silver trumpets rang across the Dome, The
Sky is laced with fitful red, The
Sweet I blame you not for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay

Thames nocturne of blue and gold, The
There was a time in Europe long ago
This English Thames is holier far than Rome
This mighty empire hath but feet of clay
To drift with every passion till my soul
To outer senses there is peace
To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear
To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught
Tread lightly, she is near
Two crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone

Was this His coming! I had hoped to see
Western wind is blowing fair, The
Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy
Wild bee reels from bough to bough, The
Within this restless, hurried, modern world



Shakespeare · Bible · Strunk · Anatomy · Nonfiction · Quotations · Reference · Fiction · Poetry
© 1993–2015 · [Top 150] · Subjects · Titles · Authors · World Lit.