The New Remorse
The sin was mine; I did not understand.
So now is music prisoned in her cave,
Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter"s hand.
But who is this that cometh by the shore?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this
Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?
It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,
And I shall weep and worship, as before.
-Oscar Wilde, (1854-1900)
from Project Gutenberg (public domain)
Oscar Wilde's other miscellaneous poems, 1881:
A Fragment
Impressions
An Inscription
A Lament
Le Jardin des Tuileries
Lotus Leaves
On the Sale of Keats' Love Letters
The True Knowledge
Under the Balcony
Wasted Days
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