To Sydney

Not thine where marble-still and white

Old statues share the tempered light

And mock the uneven modern flight,

But in the stream

Of daily sorrow and delight

To seek a theme.

I too, O friend, have steeled my heart

Boldly to choose the better part,

To leave the beaten ways of art,

And wholly free

To dare, beyond the scanty chart,

The deeper sea.

All vain restrictions left behind,

Frail bark! I loose my anchored mind

And large, before the prosperous wind

Desert the strand -

A new Columbus sworn to find

The morning land.

Nor too ambitious, friend. To thee

I own my weakness. Not for me

To sing the enfranchised nations’ glee,

Or count the cost

Of warships foundered far at sea

And battles lost.

High on the far-seen, sunny hills,

Morning-content my bosom fills;

Well-pleased, I trace the wandering rills

And learn their birth.

Far off, the clash of sovereign wills

May shake the earth.

The nimble circuit of the wheel,

The uncertain poise of merchant weal,

Heaven of famine, fire and steel

When nations fall;

These, heedful, from afar I feel -

I mark them all.

But not, my friend, not these I sing,

My voice shall fill a narrower ring.

Tired souls, that flag upon the wing,

I seek to cheer:

Brave wines to strengthen hope I bring,

Life’s cantineer!

Some song that shall be suppling oil

To weary muscles strained with toil,

Shall hearten for the daily moil,

Or widely read

Make sweet for him that tills the soil

His daily bread.

Such songs in my flushed hours I dream

(High thought) instead of armour gleam

Or warrior cantos ream by ream

To load the shelves -

Songs with a lilt of words, that seem

To sing themselves.

OSCAR WILDE (1856–1900)

Serenade

The western wind is blowing fair

Across the dark Ægean sea,

And at the secret marble stair

My Tyrian galley waits for thee.

Come down! the purple sail is spread,

The watchman sleeps within the town,

O leave thy lily-flowered bed,

O Lady mine come down, come down!

She will not come, I know her well,

Of lover’s vows she hath no care,

And little good a man can tell

Of one so cruel and so fair.

True love is but a woman’s toy,

They never know the lover’s pain,

And I who loved as loves a boy

Must love in vain, must love in vain.

O noble pilot tell me true

Is that the sheen of golden hair?

Or is it but the tangled dew

That binds the passion-flowers there?

Good sailor come and tell me now

Is that my Lady’s lily hand?

Or is it but the gleaming prow,

Or is it but the silver sand?

No! no! ‘tis not the tangled dew,

‘Tis not the silver-fretted sand,

It is my own dear Lady true

With golden hair and lily hand!

O noble pilot steer for Troy,

Good sailor ply the labouring oar,

This is the Queen of life and joy

Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!

The waning sky grows faint and blue,

It wants an hour still of day,

Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,

O Lady mine away! away!

O noble pilot steer for Troy,

Good sailor ply the labouring oar,

O loved as only loves a boy!

O loved for ever evermore!