Oscar Wilde

Poems, with The Ballad of Reading Gaol Oscar Wilde

To drift with every passion till my soulIs a stringed lute on which all winds can play, Is it for this that I have given awayMine ancient wisdom, and austere control?Methinks my life is a twice-written scrollScrawled over on some boyish holidayWith idle songs for pipe and virelay, Which do but mar the secret of the whole. Surely there was a time I might have trodThe sunlit heights, and from life's dissonanceStruck one clear chord to reach the ears of God: Is that time dead? lo! with a little rodI did but touch the honey of romance-And must I lose a soul's inheritan