Flower Of Love (by: Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)) 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. continue reading
Harlot's House, The (by: Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)) Then, turning to my love, I said, 'The dead are dancing with the dead, The dust is whirling with the dust.' continue reading
Requisecat (by: Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)) All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. continue reading
Roses And Rue (by: Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)) Could we live it over again, Were it worth the pain, Could the passionate past that is fled Call back its dead! continue reading
