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Magdalen Walks
by
Oscar Wilde


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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, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm's hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.

This poem is in the public domain.

 

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Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde, better known as Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900), was an Irish poet and author and is considered one of the greatest playwrights of the Victorian era. The son of unconventional parents, both of whom were writers themselves, Oscar was an outstanding student who demonstrated literary talent from an early age. An avid and vocal devotee of aestheticism--the belief in art for art's sake--Oscar traveled extensively lecturing on its merits, and was an instant celebrity when he arrived in America. Outspoken and flamboyant in his lifestyle and dress, Oscar was similar to Walt Whitman in that he had as many detractors as he did fans. His charm and wit were undeniable, though, and many of his wry remarks and clever comebacks are preserved in quotation books today. Oscar's life and work inspired numerous films and biographies, but he died penniless in Paris at the age of 47.

 

 


New comments are closed for now.
rhonasheridan:
I love the kingfisher wounding the air. I am an Oscar Wilde fan.
Posted 03/24/2014 04:45 AM
Dorcas:
A lovely flowing poem.
Posted 03/23/2014 10:32 PM
cynthiaoliver:
I have always enjoyed Poems of Oscar Wilde. Thank you for this one which I do not recall ever reading. Forty-seven was way too young for such a talented young man to die.
Posted 03/23/2014 04:01 PM
tannerlynne:
thank you Jane, for giving us this peom today
Posted 03/23/2014 09:30 AM


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