Oscar Wilde

The Man of Myth and Legend

Oscar Fingal O'Flaherty Wills Wilde was born in Dublin in 1854. His father, William Robert Wills Wilde, as well as his mother, Jane Francesca Elgee, were published writers. Oscar received his early education at home and was taken to France as a young boy. He attended Oxford and went to Greece and Rome during the summer of 1877,sparking a lifelong love of Classical themes.
He was a master of language and wit, fond of decadence and indulgence in the art of living. He was a self-proclaimed slave to beauty and to art. Eloquently and immodestly he declared "I altered the minds of men and the colors of things: there was nothing I said or did that did not make people wonder...Drama, novel, poem in prose, poem in rhyme, subtle or fantastic dialogue, whatever I touched I made beautiful in a new mode of beauty; to truth itself I gave what is false no less than what is true as its rightful province, and showed that the false and the true are merely forms of intellectual existence. I treated art as the supreme reality and life as a mere mode of fiction. I awoke the imagination of my century so that it created myth and legend around me. I summed up all systems in a phrase and all existence in an epigram."
Oscar Wilde was, in my opinion, a literary genius. My admiration for him is fueled by the plethora of references in his works to classical themes. His mastery of poem and prose and his dedication to beauty and to art inspired my decision to transcribe this text. This poem, "Canzonet," summons bittersweet memories of youth to my mind. The influx of emotions this poem creates in me vascillate between ecstatic joy and sober melancholy. For this reason, and for my respect and adoration of his works, I present Oscar Wilde's "Canzonet."

CANZONET

by Oscar Wilde

I have no store
Of gryphon-guarded gold;
Now, as before,
Bare is the sheperd's fold.
Rubies, nor pearls,
Have I to gem thy throat;
Yet woodland girls
Have loved the sheperd's note.

Then, pluck a reed
And bid me sing to thee,
For I would feed
Thine ears with melody,
Who art more fair
Than fairest fleur-de-lys,
More sweet and rare
Than sweetest ambergris.

What dost thou fear?
Young Hyacinth is slain,
Pan is not here,
And will not come again.
No hornèd Faun
Treads down the yellow leas,
No God at dawn
Steals through the olive-trees.

Hylas is dead,
Nor will he e'er divine
Those little red
Rose-petalled lips of thine.
On the high hill
No ivory dryads play,
Silver and still
Sinks the sad autumn day.

Links For Those Who Are Wild About Wilde

The Story of the First Modern Man -- Featuring information on "Wilde," the new film coming soon to cinemas!

The Wild Wilde Web

Wilde Quotes

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