He was standing in an old road, rutted and ancient, that wound up a black hill towards the sky, where a great flock of black birds was gathering. The birds were like black letters against the grey of the sky. He thought that in a moment he would understand what the writing meant. The stones in the ancient road were symbols foretelling the travelers journey.
Showing posts with label Oscar Wilde. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oscar Wilde. Show all posts
05 July 2010
The Simple Things
With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy? - Oscar Wilde
Labels:
freedom,
Oscar Wilde,
quotes of weeks past,
the moon
10 May 2010
I'm Alive at Last
“ To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." --Oscar Wilde
Labels:
MANALIVE,
Oscar Wilde,
quotes of weeks past
08 April 2009
Sonnet To Liberty
These are the letters which Endymion wrote
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant's price. I think they love not art
Who break the crystal of a poet's heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.
Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw
Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God's wonder, or His woe?
--Oscar Wilde
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant's price. I think they love not art
Who break the crystal of a poet's heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.
Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw
Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God's wonder, or His woe?
--Oscar Wilde
Labels:
Liberty,
National poetry month,
Oscar Wilde,
Poetry
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