Inane coquette, depart from me, Thou siren known as Muse of rhyme, Thou fain wouldst make thy slave of me, To give thee all my thought, my time, And all the love that's in my heart, I know thee well, depart! depart! I love a nobler Muse than thee, She's simple, free, intense, sublime, Her rhythm has sweeter melody Than e'er could have thy wanton rhyme. I gave to Rhythm my soul, my heart, O Muse of Rhyme, depart! depart! LINES INSPIRED ON MEETING A LADY To A. L. I look at life as an astronomer Looks at the star-filled sky. Life seems a sky to me, all human beings Rotating in their orbits are as stars. Some are obscure and some are luminous, Some give the light and warmth to solar systems, Some shed on lovers' heads soft lunar light. Some, like the comets, cosmic vagabonds, Are ever tramping the sidereal roads, And others, myriad-massed in endless stretches, Compose the glory of the Milky Way. I look at life as an astrologer Believing in the influence of stars, Their influences evil, beneficial. Perplexed I ponder o'er the laws mysterious That govern all the movements of the stars. And I am troubled in my inmost being At the appearance of a new-found star As on the threshold of a mystery. There hove into my sphere a new-found star Of primal magnitude, magnificent, Whose magnetism most irrestistibly Attracts me to itself. Am I to be the happy satellite Of this fair human sun whose smile or frown Could make me be a fertile Earth or Moon, A fertile Earth or frozen, barren Moon? Oh, will it just continue in its course, Rotating in its orbit and recede, Recede, recede, and leave me far behind Obscure and cold and sad and all alone?... OSCAR WILDE The work was done. The spirit-moulders of immortal souls Wiped from their brows the sweat and washed their hands, And standing by, in full contentment gazed Upon their wondrous work. A masterpiece! it was a masterpiece! A genius to be born unto the world, One more to swell that galaxy of stars That makes the cosmic bosom swell with pride. Another inextinguishable star To scintillate throughout eternity. The angels stood, heads bowed in reverence Before what was to be the poet Wilde, And as they stood, these proud progenitors, In blissful contemplation of their child, There fell upon them, as a shadow cast By purple clouds upon a limpid lake, A sadness that no human voice could tell. Forebodings of the suffering of Wilde Depressed them so that, kneeling down, they wept. They wept over the dire humiliation Awaiting him who is the pride of God, And over man's stupidity they wept-- The colossal stupidity of man. IMPERIALISM