Oscar Wilde

N-avea veștminte stacojii Cu vin și sânge scrise, Ci vin și sânge doar pe mâini Avea când îl găsise Cu fata moartă ce-o iubea Și-n patu-i o

Era ziua de nastere a Infantei. Implinea doisprezece ani si soarele stralucea puternic luminand gradinile palatului. Macar ca era

Cum văpaia cerului cunună Grăbește palida, învinsa lună Spre negrul ei abis, mai înainte De orice cântec de privighetori, - În fața ta frumoaso,

To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear This paltry age\'s gaudy livery, To let each base hand filch my treasury, To mesh my soul within a

Intr-o seara i se ivi in suflet dorinta de a fauri o imagine a Placerii care se statorniceste doar o Clipa. Si o porni prin lume sa caute bronz.

O, stea minunată cu gura bujor! O, lună cu aur în gene! Te urcă, te-nalță din falduri de nor, Aăterne-ți lumină-n troiene Și-ndreaptă-mi pe căi

[...] Morala nu ma ajuta. Sunt un antinomist innascut. Fac parte din cei ce sunt facuti pentru exceptii, nu pentru legi. Dar, desi consider ca

Trecea intr-o zi Isus si vede cum un barbat se tine dupa o femeie spunandu-i niste vorbe necuviincoase.\"Omule, de ce te porti asa?\",zise Isus.

Cand Narcis a murit, iazul plăcerii sale se preschimbă dintr-un potir de ape dulci într-un potir de lacrimi sărate, și Oreadele veniră plângând prin

A lily-girl, not made for this world\'s pain, With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears, And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous

Am ratacit cu dansatori Si ne-am oprit intrebatori La casa pasilor incerti. Prin multa vorba, zarva, sfada, Se auzea pana si-n strada Un

Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone With no green weight of laurels round his head, But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, And wearied with

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. Inviolate

The seasons send their ruin as they go, For in the spring the narciss shows its head Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red, And in the

Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown From antique reeds to common folk unknown: And often launched

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand, For I am drowning in a stormier sea Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee: The wine of life is spilt

To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught Of all the great things men have saved from Time, The withered body of a girl was brought Dead

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

In Memoriam C.T.W. Sometime Trooper of The Royal Horse Guards. Obiit H.M. Prison, Reading, Berkshire, July 7th, 1896

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

The sea is flecked with bars of grey, The dull dead wind is out of tune, And like a withered leaf the moon Is blown across the stormy bay.

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

The little white clouds are racing over the sky, And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March, The daffodil breaks under foot,

The western wind is blowing fair Across the dark AEgean sea, And at the secret marble stair My Tyrian galley waits for thee. Come down! the

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

Ravenna (Newdigate prize poem recited in the Sheldonian Theatre Oxford June 26th, 1878. To my friend George Fleming

In einer Zimmerecke wacht, schon länger, als ich denken kann, Die schöne Sphinx und schweigt mich an im Wechselspiel von Tag und Nacht. Ganz

Todas las tardes el joven Pescador se internaba en el mar, y arrojaba sus redes al agua. Cuando el viento soplaba desde tierra, no lograba pescar

A white mist drifts across the shrouds, A wild moon in the wintry sky Gleams like an angry lion’s eye Out of a mane of tawny

THEOCRITUS O singer of Persephone ! In the dim meadows desolate, Dost thou remember Sicily?

Charmides I He was a Grecian lad, who coming home With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily Stood at his

To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play, Is it for this that I have given away Mine ancient

Impression Du Matin The thames nocturne of blue and gold Changed to a Harmony in gray: A barge with ochre-colored

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had

I Les Silhouettes The sea is flecked with bars of grey, The dull dead wind is out of tune, And like a withered leaf the moon

She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,\" cried the young Student; \"but in all my garden there is no red rose.\" From her

She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,\" cried the young Student; \"but in all my garden there is no red rose.\" From

She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,\" cried the young Student; \"but in all my garden there is no red rose.\" From

She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,\" cried the young Student; \"but in all my garden there is no red rose.\" From her