Three Poems by Oscar Wilde

Under the rose-tree's dancing shade
    There stands a little ivory girl,
    Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl
With pale green nails of polished jade.

The red leaves fall upon the mould,
    The white leaves flutter, one by one,
    Down to a blue bowl where the sun,
Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.
 
The white leaves float upon the air,
    The red leaves flutter idly down,
    Some fall upon her yellow gown,
And some upon her raven hair.
 
She takes an amber lute and sings,
    And as she sings a silver crane
    Begins his scarlet neck to strain,
And flap his burnished metal wings.
 
She takes a lute of amber bright,
    And from the thicket where he hides
    Her lover, with his almond eyes,
Watches her movements with delight.
 
And now she gives a cry of fear,
    And tiny tears begin to start:
    A thorn has wounded with its dart
The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.
 
And now she laughs a merry note:
    There has fallen a petal of the rose
    Just where the yellow satin shows
The blue-veined flower of her throat.
 
With pale green nails of polished jade,
    Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,
    There stands a little ivory girl
Under the rose-tree's dancing shade.

Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too long.

Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
Were it worth the pain!

I remember we used to meet
By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird;

And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird's throat
With its last big note;

And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed;

And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.

You were always afraid of a shower,
Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.

I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
Little wings to your feet.

I remember your hair -- did I tie it?
For it always ran riot -
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
These things are old.

I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain;

And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From your shoulders rose.

And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face -
Had a small tear left a stain?
Or was it the rain?

On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry,

'You have only wasted your life.'
(Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.

Could we live it over again,
Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead!

Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
Poets' hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God's heaven and hell.

Out of the mid-wood's twilight
Into the meadow's dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun!

He skips through the copses singing,
And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
Shadow or song!

O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
I track him in vain!