Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde
Wilde's poetry traces an arc from effortless beauty to something far darker and more profound. The early verses shimmer with the decadence and aestheticism that made him famous, celebrating love, nature, and the sensual world with language as polished as a gem. But the collection builds toward "The Ballad of Reading Gaol," the towering poem Wilde wrote after two years in prison, watching a man hang for killing the woman he loved. Here the wit falls away entirely, replaced by something raw and necessary: a meditation on guilt, punishment, and the humanity we all share beneath our crimes. The poem doesn't preach. It simply asks us to look at the condemned man and see ourselves. This collection is essential for anyone who thinks of Wilde only as the author of comedies. Here you find the full man: brilliant, wounded, and capable of genuine greatness.
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“But strange that I was not told That the brain can hold In a tiny ivory cell God's heaven and hell.””
— Oscar Wilde
“Poem: 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
“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.””
— Oscar Wilde
“Like two doomed ships that pass in storm We had crossed each other's way: But we made no sign, we said no word, We had no word to say; For we did not meet in the holy night, But in the shameful day.””
— Oscar Wilde
“I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky,””
— Oscar Wilde
“that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky,””
— Oscar Wilde
“In the cave of black Despair: He only looked upon the sun, And drank the morning air.””
— Oscar Wilde
“Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.””
— Oscar Wilde
“No need to waste the foolish tear, Or heave the windy sigh: The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die. And all men kill the thing they love, By all let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!””
— Oscar Wilde
