Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/203

 Of too much beauty, and the timid shame

Of the young bridegroom at his lover's eyes,—these with the same

One sacrament are consecrate, the earth

Not we alone hath passions hymeneal,

The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth

At daybreak know a pleasure not less real

Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming wood,

We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is good.

So when men bury us beneath the yew

Thy crimson-stainèd mouth a rose will be,

And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with dew,

And when the white narcissus wantonly

Kisses the wind its playmate some faint joy

Will thrill our dust, and we will be again fond maid and boy.

And thus without life's conscious torturing pain

In some sweet flower we will feel the sun,

And from the linnet's throat will sing again,

And as two gorgeous-mailèd snakes will run

Over our graves, or as two tigers creep

Through the hot jungle where the yellow-eyed huge lions sleep 189