Oscar Wilde

Here you will find the Long Poem Humanitad of poet Oscar Wilde


IT is full Winter now: the trees are bare,
 Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
 Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
 The Autumn's gaudy livery whose gold
 Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true
 To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew

 From Saturn's cave; a few thin wisps of hay
 Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain
 Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer's day
 From the low meadows up the narrow lane;
 Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep
 Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep

 From the shut stable to the frozen stream
 And back again disconsolate, and miss
 The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;
 And overhead in circling listlessness
 The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,
 Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack

 Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds
 And flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck,
 And hoots to see the moon; across the meads
 Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;
 And a stray seamew with its fretful cry
 Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.

 Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings
 His load of faggots from the chilly byre,
 And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings
 The sappy billets on the waning fire,
 And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare
 His children at their play; and yet,--the Spring is in the air,

 Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,
 And soon yon blanchèd fields will bloom again
 With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,
 For with the first warm kisses of the rain
 The winter's icy sorrow breaks to tears,
 And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers

 From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,
 And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs
 Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly
 Across our path at evening, and the suns
 Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see
 Grass-girdled Spring in all her joy of laughing greenery

 Dance through the hedges till the early rose,
 (That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)
 Burst from its sheathèd emerald and disclose
 The little quivering disk of golden fire
 Which the bees know so well, for with it come
 Pale boys-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom.

 Then up and down the field the sower goes,
 While close behind the laughing younker scares
 With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,
 And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,
 And on the grass the creamy blossom falls
 In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals

 Steal from the bluebells' nodding carillons
 Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,
 That star of its own heaven, snapdragons
 With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine
 In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed
 And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed

 Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,
 And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,
 Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy
 Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise,
 And violets getting overbold withdraw
 From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw.

 O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!
 Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock
 And crown of flowre-de-luce trip down the lea,
 Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock
 Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon
 Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at

 Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour,
 The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns
 Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture
 Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations
 With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,
 And straggling traveller's joy each hedge with yellow stars will

 Dear Bride of Nature and most bounteous Spring!
 That can'st give increase to the sweet-breath'd kine,
 And to the kid its little horns, and bring
 The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,
 Where is that old nepenthe which of yore
 Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!

 There was a time when any common bird
 Could make me sing in unison, a time
 When all the strings of boyish life were stirred
 To quick response or more melodious rhyme
 By every forest idyll;--do I change?
 Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range?

 Nay, nay, thou art the same: 'tis I who seek
 To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,
 And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek
 Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;
 Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare
 To taint such wine with the salt poison of his own despair!

 Thou art the same: 'tis I whose wretched soul
 Takes discontent to be its param