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    Holy Week At Genoa

    by Oscar Wilde
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    I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat,
    The oranges on each o'erhanging spray
    Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
    Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
    Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet
    Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
    And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay
    Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
    Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,
    'Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,
    O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.'
    Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours
    Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,
    The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.
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