My Voice - A Collection of Poems

Oscar Wilde

• Editorial: Ragged Hand
• Año: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781528791236
• Categoría: Littérature
• Categoría: Poésie européenne

Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde (1854–1900) was an Irish poet and playwright who became one of the most popular in London during the 1880s and 1890s. Well-known for his sharp wit and extravagant attire, Wilde was a proponent of aestheticism and wrote in a variety of forms including poetry, fiction, and drama. He was famously imprisoned for homosexual acts from 1895 to 1897 and died at the age of 46, just three years after his release. This book contains a brand-new collection of some of Wilde's best poetry, including the titular "My Voice". A fantastic collection of poetry by one of the nineteenth century's most notable poets not to be missed by fans and collectors of Wilde's wonderful work. Contents include: "Canzonet", "Amor Intellectualis", "Flower of Love", "Vita Nuova", "A Vision", "Ave Imperatrix", "Under the Balcony", "Rome Unvisited", "Easter Day", "The Grave of Shelley", "Her Voice", "Camma", "The Grave of Keats", "Fantaisies Décoratives - Le Panneau", "The Burden of Itys", etc. Other notable works by this author include: "Picture of Dorian Gray" (1890), "Salome" (1891), and "The Importance of Being Earnest" (1895). Ragged Hand is proudly publishing this brand-new work complete with a specially-commissioned new biography of Oscar Wilde.

THE BALLAD
OF READING GAOL

1897

I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,

For blood and wine are red,

And blood and wine were on his hands

When they found him with the dead,

The poor dead woman whom he loved,

And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men

In a suit of shabby grey;

A cricket cap was on his head,

And his step seemed light and gay;

But I never saw a man who looked

So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked

With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went

With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,

Within another ring,

And was wondering if the man had done

A great or little thing,

When a voice behind me whispered low,

"That fellow's got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls

Suddenly seemed to reel,

And the sky above my head became

Like a casque of scorching steel;

And, though I was a soul in pain,

My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought

Quickened his step, and why

He looked upon the garish day

With such a wistful eye;

The man had killed the thing he loved

And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,...