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Wilde, Oscar

«« Previous page · Oscar Wilde: Requiescat, vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld · Oscar Wilde: Impression Du Matin, vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld · Oscar Wilde: Requiescat · OSCAR WILDE: The Grave Of Shelley · Oscar Wilde: The Grave of Keats · Oscar Wilde: Madonna Mia · Oscar Wilde: Roses And Rue · Oscar Wilde: Flower of Love · Oscar Wilde: From ‘The Garden Of Eros’ · Oscar Wilde: Impression Du Matin · Oscar Wilde: My Voice · Oscar Wilde: Under The Balcony

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Oscar Wilde: Requiescat, vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld

Oscar Wilde

(1854-1900)

 

Requiescat

 

Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

 

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

 

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

 

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone

She is at rest.

 

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life’s buried here,

Heap earth upon it.

 

Avignon


 

Oscar Wilde

Dat zij rusten mag

 

Stap zachtjes, zij is dichtbij,

Sneeuw ligt op haar,

Spreek teer, reeds groeit – hoort zij –

‘t Meizoentje daar.

 

Zij, nog zo jong, gezond

Daalde tot stof,

Lokken zo glanzend blond

Dor nu en dof.

 

‘n Lelie gelijk, sneeuwwit,

Ging haar voorbij

‘t Vrouw-zijn als haar bezit,

Zo zoet werd zij.

 

Kistdeksel, zware steen,

Drukken op haar,

Ik terg mijn hart alleen

Zij rust nu daar.

 

Zij hoort ode noch lier,

Stil nu, O stop,

Heel mijn leven ligt hier,

Schep aarde er op.

 

Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld

Oscar Wilde: Requiescat

Dit gedicht herdenkt Wilde’s 3 jaar jongere zusje Isola die stierf in de winter van 1867 toen Oscar 12 jaar oud was. Wilde bezocht Avignon op zijn reis naar Italië in 1875.

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Wilde, Wilde, Oscar


Oscar Wilde: Impression Du Matin, vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld

Oscar Wilde

(1854-1900)

Impression Du Matin

 

The Thames nocturne of blue and gold

Changed to a Harmony in grey:

A barge with ochre-coloured hay

Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold

 

The yellow fog came creeping down

The bridges, till the houses’ walls

Seemed changed to shadows, and S. Paul’s

Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.

 

Then suddenly arose the clang

Of waking life; the streets were stirred

With country waggons: and a bird

Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.

 

But one pale woman all alone,

The daylight kissing her wan hair,

Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,

With lips of flame and heart of stone.

 

 

Oscar Wilde

Indruk van de ochtend

 

De Theems nocturne in blauw en goud

Werd tot een harmonie in grijs;

Een hooibark stak van wal op reis,

Oker van kleur: en kil en koud

 

Zocht van de bruggen af zijn pad

De gele mist, tot overal

Steen slechts een schim leek, en als ‘n bal

St. Paul’s hoog oprees uit de stad.

 

Wat dan ineens veel drukte bood

Was ‘t opstaan; ‘n koetsenrij bewoog

Zich voort door elke straat; er vloog

Een vogel ‘t glansdak op en floot.

 

Maar ‘n bleke vrouw geheel alleen,

Een dagglimp op haar vaal gezicht,

Liep talmend voort bij ‘t gaslamplicht,

De lip in vlam en ‘t hart van steen.

 

 

Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld

Oscar Wilde: Impression Du Matin

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Archive W-X, London Poems, Wilde, Wilde, Oscar


Oscar Wilde: Requiescat

O s c a r   W i l d e

(1854-1900)

 

Requiescat

 

Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

 

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

 

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

 

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone,

She is at rest.

 

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life’s buried here,

Heap earth upon it.

Oscar Wilde poetry

k e m p i s . n l   p o e t r y   m a g a z i n e

More in: Archive W-X, Wilde, Oscar


OSCAR WILDE: The Grave Of Shelley

O s c a r   W i l d e

(1854-1900)

 

The Grave Of Shelley

 

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed

Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;

Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,

And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.

And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,

In the still chamber of yon pyramid

Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,

Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.

 

Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb

Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,

But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb

In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,

Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom

Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.


O s c a r   W i l d e   p o e t r y

k e m p i s   p o  e t r y   m a g a z i n e

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Oscar Wilde: The Grave of Keats

Oscar Wilde

(1854-1900)

 

The Grave Of Keats

 

Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain,

He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue:

Taken from life when life and love were new

The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,

Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.

No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,

But gentle violets weeping with the dew

Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.

O proudest heart that broke for misery!

O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!

O poet-painter of our English Land!

Thy name was writ in water–it shall stand:

And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,

As Isabella did her Basil-tree.

 

O s c a r   W i l d e   p o e t r y

k e m p i s   p o e t r y   m a g a z i n e

More in: Wilde, Oscar


Oscar Wilde: Madonna Mia

O s c a r   W i l d e

(1854-1900)

 

Madonna Mia

 

A lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain,

With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,

And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears

Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:

Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,

Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,

And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,

Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.

Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,

Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,

Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe,

Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice

Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw

The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.


Oscar Wilde poetry

k e m p i s   p o e t r y   m a g a z i n e

More in: Wilde, Oscar


Oscar Wilde: Roses And Rue

O s c a r   W i l d e

(1854-1900)

 

Roses And Rue

(To L. L.)

 

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.

 

 

Oscar Wilde poetry

k e m p i s   p o e t r y   m a g a z i n e

More in: Wilde, Oscar


Oscar Wilde: Flower of Love

O s c a r   W i l d e

(1854-1900)

 

Flower of Love


Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault

was, had I not been made of common clay

I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed

yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

 

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had

struck a better, clearer song,

Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled

with some Hydra-headed wrong.

 

Had my lips been smitten into music by the

kisses that but made them bleed,

You had walked with Bice and the angels on

that verdant and enamelled mead.

 

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw

the suns of seven circles shine,

Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,

as they opened to the Florentine.

 

And the mighty nations would have crowned

me, who am crownless now and without name,

And some orient dawn had found me kneeling

on the threshold of the House of Fame.

 

I had sat within that marble circle where the

oldest bard is as the young,

And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the

lyre’s strings are ever strung.

 

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out

the poppy-seeded wine,

With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,

clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

 

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms

brush the burnished bosom of the dove,

Two young lovers lying in an orchard would

have read the story of our love;

 

Would have read the legend of my passion,

known the bitter secret of my heart,

Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as

we two are fated now to part.

 

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by

the cankerworm of truth,

And no hand can gather up the fallen withered

petals of the rose of youth.

 

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you – ah!

what else had I a boy to do, –

For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the

silent-footed years pursue.

 

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and

when once the storm of youth is past,

Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death

the silent pilot comes at last.

 

And within the grave there is no pleasure,

for the blindworm battens on the root,

And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree

of Passion bears no fruit.

 

Ah! what else had I to do but love you?

God’s own mother was less dear to me,

And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an

argent lily from the sea.

 

I have made my choice, have lived my

poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,

I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better

than the poet’s crown of bays.

 

O s c a r   W i l d e   p o e t r y

k e m p i s   p o e t r y   m a g a z i n e

More in: Wilde, Oscar


Oscar Wilde: From ‘The Garden Of Eros’

O s c a r   W i l d e

(1854-1900)

From ‘The Garden Of Eros’


Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left

One silver voice to sing his threnody,

But ah! too soon of it we were bereft

When on that riven night and stormy sea

Panthea claimed her singer as her own,

And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk

alone,


Save for that fiery heart, that morning star

Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye

Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war

The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy

Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring

The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,


And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,

And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot

In passionless and fierce virginity

Hunting the tusked boar, his honied lute

Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,

And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.


And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,

And sung the Galilaean’s requiem,

That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine

He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him

Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,

And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.


Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,

It is not quenched the torch of poesy,

The star that shook above the Eastern hill

Holds unassailed its argent armoury

From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight –

O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,


Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,

Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,

With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled

The weary soul of man in troublous need,

And from the far and flowerless fields of ice

Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.


We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,

Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,

How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,

And what enchantment held the king in thrall

When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers

That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,


Long listless summer hours when the noon

Being enamoured of a damask rose

Forgets to journey westward, till the moon

The pale usurper of its tribute grows

From a thin sickle to a silver shield

And chides its loitering car – how oft, in some cool grassy field


Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,

At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come

Almost before the blackbird finds a mate

And overstay the swallow, and the hum

Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,

Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,


And through their unreal woes and mimic pain

Wept for myself, and so was purified,

And in their simple mirth grew glad again;

For as I sailed upon that pictured tide

The strength and splendour of the storm was mine

Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;
 

The little laugh of water falling down

Is not so musical, the clammy gold

Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town

Has less of sweetness in it, and the old

Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady

Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.


Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!

Although the cheating merchants of the mart

With iron roads profane our lovely isle,

And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,

Ay! though the crowded factories beget

The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!


For One at least there is, – He bears his name

From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,

Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame

To light thine altar; He {4} too loves thee well,

Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,

And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,


Loves thee so well, that all the World for him

A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,

And Sorrow take a purple diadem,

Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair

Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be

Even in anguish beautiful; – such is the empery


Which Painters hold, and such the heritage

This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,

Being a better mirror of his age

In all his pity, love, and weariness,

Than those who can but copy common things,

And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.


But they are few, and all romance has flown,

And men can prophesy about the sun,

And lecture on his arrows – how, alone,

Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,

How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,

And that no more ‘mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.

 

(In his poem the author laments the growth of materialism in the nineteenth century. He hails Keats and Shelley and some of the poets and artists who were his contemporaries, although his seniors, as the torch-bearers of the intellectual life. Among these are Swinburne, William Morris, Rossetti, and Burne-Jones)

O s c a r   W i l d e   p o e t r y

k e m p i s   p o e t r y   m a g a z i n e

More in: Archive W-X, Wilde, Oscar


Oscar Wilde: Impression Du Matin

O s c a r   W i l d e

(1854-1900)

 

Impression Du Matin

 

The Thames nocturne of blue and gold

Changed to a Harmony in grey:

A barge with ochre-coloured hay

Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold

 

The yellow fog came creeping down

The bridges, till the houses’ walls

Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s

Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.

 

Then suddenly arose the clang

Of waking life; the streets were stirred

With country waggons: and a bird

Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.

 

But one pale woman all alone,

The daylight kissing her wan hair,

Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,

With lips of flame and heart of stone.


 

O s c a r   W i l d e   p o e t r y

k e m p i s   p o e t r y   m a g a z i n

More in: Wilde, Oscar


Oscar Wilde: My Voice

O s c a r   W i l d e

(1854-1900)

 

My Voice

 

Within this restless, hurried, modern world

We took our hearts’ full pleasure–You and I,

And now the white sails of our ship are furled,

And spent the lading of our argosy.

 

Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,

For very weeping is my gladness fled,

Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion,

And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.

 

But all this crowded life has been to thee

No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell

Of viols, or the music of the sea

That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.

O s c a r   W i l d e   p o e t r y

k e m p i s   p o e t r y   m a g a z i n e

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Oscar Wilde: Under The Balcony

O s c a r   W i l d e

(1854-1900)

 

Under The Balcony

 

O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!

O moon with the brows of gold!

Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!

And light for my love her way,

Lest her little feet should stray

On the windy hill and the wold!

O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!

O moon with the brows of gold!

 

O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!

O ship with the wet, white sail!

Put in, put in, to the port to me!

For my love and I would go

To the land where the daffodils blow

In the heart of a violet dale!

O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!

O ship with the wet, white sail!

 

O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!

O bird that sits on the spray!

Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat!

And my love in her little bed

Will listen, and lift her head

From the pillow, and come my way!

O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!

O bird that sits on the spray!

 

O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!

O blossom with lips of snow!

Come down, come down, for my love to wear!

You will die on her head in a crown,

You will die in a fold of her gown,

To her little light heart you will go!

O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!

O blossom with lips of snow!

O s c a r   W i l d e   p o e t r y

k e m p i s   p o e t r y   m a g a z i n e

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