ROSES AND RUE by OSCAR WILDE

I

I remember we used to meet
By a garden seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird,

And your voice had a quaver in it
Just like a linnet,
And shook with the last full note
As the thrush's throat.

And your eyes, they were green and grey,
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed.

And your hair -- well, I never could tie it,
For it ran all riot
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold,
Great fold upon fold.

II

You were always afraid of a shower,
(Just like a flower!);
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.

I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you;
You had wonderful luminous fleet
Little wings to your feet.

Yet you somehow would give me the prize,
With a laugh in your eyes,
The rose from your breast, or the bliss
Of a single swift kiss

On your neck with its marble hue,
And its vein of blue --
How these passionate memories bite
In my heart as I write!

III

I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane,
In the warm June rain.

And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two little satin bows
From your shoulders rose.

And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face --
Had a tear-drop left a stain?
Or was it the rain?

'You have only wasted your life' --
(Ah! there was the knife!)
Those were the words you said,
As you turned your head.

I had wasted my boyhood, true,
But it was for you,
You had poets enough on the shelf,
I gave you myself!

IV

Well, if my heart must break,
Dear Love, for you sake,
It will break in music, I know;
Poets' hearts break so.
But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God's Heaven and Hell.

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