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    [Greek Title]

    by Oscar Wilde
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    Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
    was, had I not been made of common clay
    I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
    yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

    From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
    struck a better, clearer song,
    Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
    with some Hydra-headed wrong.

    Had my lips been smitten into music by the
    kisses that but made them bleed,
    You had walked with Bice and the angels on
    that verdant and enamelled mead.

    I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
    the suns of seven circles shine,
    Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
    as they opened to the Florentine.

    And the mighty nations would have crowned
    me, who am crownless now and without name,
    And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
    on the threshold of the House of Fame.

    I had sat within that marble circle where the
    oldest bard is as the young,
    And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
    lyre's strings are ever strung.

    Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
    the poppy-seeded wine,
    With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
    clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

    And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush
    the burnished bosom of the dove,
    Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
    have read the story of our love.

    Would have read the legend of my passion,
    known the bitter secret of my heart,
    Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
    we two are fated now to part.

    For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
    the cankerworm of truth,
    And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
    petals of the rose of youth.

    Yet I am not sorry that I loved you--ah! what
    else had I a boy to do,--
    For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
    silent-footed years pursue.

    Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
    when once the storm of youth is past,
    Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
    the silent pilot comes at last.

    And within the grave there is no pleasure, for
    the blindworm battens on the root,
    And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of
    Passion bears no fruit.

    Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God's
    own mother was less dear to me,
    And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an
    argent lily from the sea.

    I have made my choice, have lived my poems,
    and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
    I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better
    than the poet's crown of bays.
    If you're writing a [Greek Title] essay and need some advice, post your Oscar Wilde essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

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