Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde. Wilde Oscar

never saw a man who looked

         With such a wistful eye

      Upon that little tent of blue

         Which prisoners call the sky,

      And at every wandering cloud that trailed

         Its ravelled fleeces by.

      He did not wring his hands, as do

         Those witless men who dare

      To try to rear the changeling Hope

         In the cave of black Despair:

      He only looked upon the sun,

         And drank the morning air.

      He did not wring his hands nor weep,

         Nor did he peek or pine,

      But he drank the air as though it held

         Some healthful anodyne;

      With open mouth he drank the sun

         As though it had been wine!

      And I and all the souls in pain,

         Who tramped the other ring,

      Forgot if we ourselves had done

         A great or little thing,

      And watched with gaze of dull amaze

         The man who had to swing.

      And strange it was to see him pass

         With a step so light and gay,

      And strange it was to see him look

         So wistfully at the day,

      And strange it was to think that he

         Had such a debt to pay.

      For oak and elm have pleasant leaves

         That in the springtime shoot:

      But grim to see is the gallows-tree,

         With its adder-bitten root,

      And, green or dry, a man must die

         Before it bears its fruit!

      The loftiest place is that seat of grace

         For which all worldlings try:

      But who would stand in hempen band

         Upon a scaffold high,

      And through a murderer’s collar take

         His last look at the sky?

      It is sweet to dance to violins

         When Love and Life are fair:

      To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes

         Is delicate and rare:

      But it is not sweet with nimble feet

         To dance upon the air!

      So with curious eyes and sick surmise

         We watched him day by day,

      And wondered if each one of us

         Would end the self-same way,

      For none can tell to what red Hell

         His sightless soul may stray.

      At last the dead man walked no more

         Amongst the Trial Men,

      And I knew that he was standing up

         In the black dock’s dreadful pen,

      And that never would I see his face

         In God’s sweet world again.

      Like two doomed ships that pass in storm

         We had crossed each other’s way:

      But we made no sign, we said no word,

         We had no word to say;

      For we did not meet in the holy night,

         But in the shameful day.

      A prison wall was round us both,

         Two outcast men we were:

      The world had thrust us from its heart,

         And God from out His care:

      And the iron gin that waits for Sin

         Had caught us in its snare.

III

      In Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard,

         And the dripping wall is high,

      So it was there he took the air

         Beneath the leaden sky,

      And by each side a Warder walked,

         For fear the man might die.

      Or else he sat with those who watched

         His anguish night and day;

      Who watched him when he rose to weep,

         And when he crouched to pray;

      Who watched him lest himself should rob

         Their scaffold of its prey.

      The Governor was strong upon

         The Regulations Act:

      The Doctor said that Death was but

         A scientific fact:

      And twice a day the Chaplain called,

         And left a little tract.

      And twice a day he smoked his pipe,

         And drank his quart of beer:

      His soul was resolute, and held

         No hiding-place for fear;

      He often said that he was glad

         The hangman’s hands were near.

      But why he said so strange a thing

         No Warder dared to ask:

      For he to whom a watcher’s doom

         Is given as his task,

      Must set a lock upon his lips,

         And make his face a mask.

      Or else he might be moved, and try

         To comfort or console:

      And what should Human Pity do

         Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?

      What word of grace in such a place

         Could help a brother’s soul?

      With slouch and swing around the ring

         We trod the Fools’ Parade!

      We did not care: we knew we were

         The Devil’s Own Brigade:

      And shaven head and feet of lead

         Make a merry masquerade.

      We tore the tarry rope to shreds

         With blunt and bleeding nails;

      We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,

         And cleaned the shining rails:

      And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,

         And clattered with the pails.

      We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,

         We turned the dusty drill:

      We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,

         And sweated on the mill:

      But in the heart of every