THE NEW REMORSE



The sin was mine; I did not understand.
So now is music prisoned in her cave,
Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.

But who is this who cometh by the shore?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this
Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?
It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,
And I shall weep and worship, as before.

Added: Aug 13 2004 | Viewed: 1255 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Oscar Wilde
Poem: 9. THE NEW REMORSE
Volume: Charmides and Other Poems - Sonnets
Year: Published/Written in 1881
Poem of the Day on:
Jan 12 2008
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