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Oscar Wilde
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Amor Intellectualis
Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly / And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown / From antique reeds to common folk unknown:
At Verona
How steep the stairs within King's houses are / For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread, / And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Athanasia
To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught / Of all the great things men have saved from Time, / The withered body of a girl was brought
Ave Maria Gratia Plena
Was this His coming! I had hoped to see / A scene of wondrous glory, as was told / Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)
I am weary of lying within the chase / When the knights are meeting in market-place. / Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
By The Arno
The oleander on the wall / Grows crimson in the dawning light, / Though the grey shadows of the night
Camma
(To Ellen Terry) / As one who poring on a Grecian urn / Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,
Canzonet
I have no store / Of gryphon-guarded gold; / Now, as before,
Charmides
I. / He was a Grecian lad, who coming home / With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily
Desespoir
The seasons send their ruin as they go, / For in the spring the narciss shows its head / Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
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