Oscar Wilde – Le jardin

THE lily’s withered chalice falls
Around its rod of dusty gold,
And from the beech-trees on the wold
The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

The gaudy leonine sunflower
Hangs black and barren on its stalk,
And down the windy garden walk
The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.

Pale privet-petals white as milk
Are blown into a snowy mass:
The roses lie upon the grass
Like little shreds of crimson silk.

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Oscar Wilde – Endymion (For Music)

THE apple trees are hung with gold,
And birds are loud in Arcady,
The sheep lie bleating in the fold,
The wild goat runs across the wold,
But yesterday his love he told,
I know he will come back to me.
O rising moon! O Lady moon!
Be you my lover’s sentinel,
You cannot choose but know him well,
For he is shod with purple shoon,
You cannot choose but know my love,
For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,
And he is (altro…)

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Oscar Wilde – Louis Napoleon

EAGLE of Austerlitz! where were thy wings
When far away upon a barbarous strand,
In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,
Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!

Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red,
Or ride in state through Paris in the van
Of thy returning legions, but instead
Thy mother France, free and republican,

Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place
The better laurels of a soldier’s crown,
That not dishonoured should thy (altro…)

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Oscar Wilde – Humanitad

IT is full winter now: the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold
Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true
To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew

From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hay
Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain
Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day
From the low meadows (altro…)

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Oscar Wilde – Life the Disciple

We have all seen in our own day in England how a certain curious and fascinating type of beauty, invented and emphasised by two imaginative painters, has so influenced Life that whenever one goes to a private view or to an artistic salon one sees, here the mystic eyes of Rossetti’s dream, the long ivory throat, the strange square-cut jaw, the loosened shadowy hair that he so ardently loved, there the (altro…)

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Oscar Wilde – Life the Fallacious Model

Art begins with abstract decoration, with purely imaginative and pleasurable work dealing with what is unreal and non-existent.  This is the first stage.  Then Life becomes fascinated with this new wonder, and asks to be admitted into the charmed circle.  Art takes life as part of her rough material, recreates it, and refashions it in fresh forms, is absolutely indifferent to fact, invents, imagines, dreams, and keeps between herself and reality (altro…)

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Oscar Wilde – The Quality of George Meredith

Ah!  Meredith!  Who can define him?  His style is chaos illumined by flashes of lightning.  As a writer he has mastered everything except language: as a novelist he can do everything, except tell a story: as an artist he is everything except articulate.  Somebody in Shakespeare—Touchstone, I think—talks about a man who is always breaking his shins over his own wit, and it seems to me that this might serve as (altro…)

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Oscar Wilde – How they Struck a Contemporary

There is such a thing as robbing a story of its reality by trying to make it too true, and The Black Arrow is so inartistic as not to contain a single anachronism to boast of, while the transformation of Dr. Jekyll reads dangerously like an experiment out of the Lancet.  As for Mr. Rider Haggard, who really has, or had once, the makings of a perfectly magnificent liar, he is (altro…)

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Oscar Wilde – The Decay of Lying

A DIALOGUEPersons: Cyril and
VivianScene: the Library of a country
house in Nottinghamshire.

Cyril (coming in through the open window from the terrace).  My dear Vivian, don’t coop yourself up all day in the library.  It is a perfectly lovely afternoon.  The air is exquisite.  There is a mist upon the woods, like the purple bloom upon a plum.  Let us go and lie on the grass and smoke cigarettes and enjoy (altro…)

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Antero de Quental – Meus dias vão correndo vagarosos

Meus dias vão correndo vagarosos
Sem prazer e sem dor, e mais parece
Que este fóco intrior antes fenece
Do que brilha com raios luminosos.

É bela a vida e os anos são formosos,
E nunca ao peito amante amor falece…
Mas, se a beleza aqui nos aparece,
Outra alembra de mais perfeitos gosos.

Minha alma, ó Deus! a outros céus aspira:
Prende-a um instante mundanal beleza,
Mas outra a patria é por que suspira.

Porem do pressentir dá-me a certeza,
Dá-ma! e (altro…)

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We are not Charlie and we will never be.