The Picture of Dorian Gray / Oscar Wilde

Title: The Picture of Dorian Gray  

Author: Oscar Wilde 

Subjects: Fiction; Paranormal; Supernatural; Philosophical 

It is a philosophical novel. In the preface Oscar Wilde writes, "All art is quite useless." But it has noting to do with novel. The theme is aestheticism and its conceptual relation to living a double life. Throughout the story, the narrative presents aestheticism as an absurd abstraction, which disillusions more than it dignifies the concept of Beauty. Still famous. 

The Importance of Being Earnest / Oscar Wilde

Title: The Importance of Being Earnest 

(A Trivial Comedy for Serious People)

Author: Oscar Wilde 

Subjects: Play; Drama; Comedy 

In a drama comedy one can learn and observe how to escape from burden of social obligations.

THE SCENES OF THE PLAY

ACT I. Algernon Moncrieff’s Flat in Half-Moon Street, W.

With A Copy Of 'A House Of Pomegranates' / Oscar Wilde

Go, little book,

To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,

Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:

And bid him look

Into thy pages: it may hap that he

May find that golden maidens dance through thee.

Vita Nuova / Oscar Wilde

I stood by the unvintageable sea

Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray;

The long red fires of the dying day

Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;

And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:

'Alas!' I cried, 'my life is full of pain,

And who can garner fruit or golden grain

From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!'

Urbs Sacra Aeterna / Oscar Wilde

Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been;

In the first days thy sword republican

Ruled the whole world for many an age's span:

Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen,

Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;

And now upon thy walls the breezes fan

(Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)

The hated flag of red and white and green.

Under The Balcony / Oscar Wilde

O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!

O moon with the brows of gold!

Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!

And light for my love her way,

Lest her little feet should stray

On the windy hill and the wold!

O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!

O moon with the brows of gold!

Tristitiae / Oscar Wilde

O well for him who lives at ease

With garnered gold in wide domain,

Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,

The crashing down of forest trees.

O well for him who ne'er hath known

The travail of the hungry years,

A father grey with grief and tears,

A mother weeping all alone.

To My Wife-With A Copy Of My Poems / Oscar Wilde

I can write no stately proem

As a prelude to my lay;

From a poet to a poem

I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals

One to you seem fair,

Love will waft it till it settles

On your hair.

To Milton / Oscar Wilde

Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away

From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers;

This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours

Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,

And the age changed unto a mimic play

Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:

For all our pomp and pageantry and powers

We are but fit to delve the common clay,

Theoretikos / Oscar Wilde

This mighty empire hath but feet of clay:

Of all its ancient chivalry and might

Our little island is forsaken quite:

Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,

And from its hills that voice hath passed away

Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,

Theocritus--A Villanelle / Oscar Wilde

O singer of Persephone!

In the dim meadows desolate

Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still through the ivy flits the bee

Where Amaryllis lies in state;

O Singer of Persephone!

The True Knowledge / Oscar Wilde

Thou knowest all; I seek in vain

What lands to till or sow with seed--

The land is black with briar and weed,

Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

Thou knowest all; I sit and wait

With blinded eyes and hands that fail,

Till the last lifting of the veil

And the first opening of the gate.

The Sphinx / Oscar Wilde

(To Marcel Schwob in friendship and in admiration)

In a dim corner of my room for longer than

my fancy thinks

A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me

through the shifting gloom.

The New Remorse / Oscar Wilde

The sin was mine; I did not understand.

So now is music prisoned in her cave,

Save where some ebbing desultory wave

Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.

And in the withered hollow of this land

Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,

That hardly can the leaden willow crave

One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.

The New Helen / Oscar Wilde

Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy

The sons of God fought in that great emprise?

Why dost thou walk our common earth again?

Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,

His purple galley and his Tyrian men

And treacherous Aphrodite's mocking eyes?

For surely it was thou, who, like a star

Hung in the silver silence of the night,

Didst lure the Old World's chivalry and might

Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!

The Harlot's House / Oscar Wilde

We caught the tread of dancing feet,

We loitered down the moonlit street,

And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray,

We heard the loud musicians play

The 'Treues Liebes Herz' of Strauss.

The Grave Of Shelley / Oscar Wilde

LIKE burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed

Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;

Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,

And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.

And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,

In the still chamber of yon pyramid

Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,

Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead. 

The Grave Of Keats / Oscar Wilde

Rid of the world's injustice, and his pain,

He rests at last beneath God's veil of blue:

Taken from life when life and love were new

The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,

Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.

No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,

But gentle violets weeping with the dew

Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.

The Garden Of Eros / Oscar Wilde

It is full summer now, the heart of June;

Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir

Upon the upland meadow where too soon

Rich autumn time, the season's usurer,

Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,

And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

The Dole Of The King's Daughter (Breton) / Oscar Wilde

Seven stars in the still water,

And seven in the sky;

Seven sins on the King's daughter,

Deep in her soul to lie.

Red roses are at her feet,

(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)

And O where her bosom and girdle meet

Red roses are hidden there.