(Oscar Wilde.)

I gazed upon thee desolate and heard

Thine anguished cry when fell the iron gin

That all but broke thy soul, yet gave thy word

The strength to ask forgiveness of thy sin.

I saw thee fleeing from the cruel light

Of thine own fame; I saw thee hide thy face

In alien dust to cover up the blight

Upon thy brow that time may yet erase.

I knew thy creed, although thy lips were mute;

I knew the gods thou didst not dare to own;

I knew the Upas poison at the root

Of thy last flower of song, in prison blown.

And out of all thy woe there came to me

This miracle of dogma, like a cry:

"No law but freedom for the vagrant bee—

No love but summer for the butterfly."

[60]

[60]

SILENCE.

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