Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/297

 Let thine imperial laurels bind my brows,

Ignoble else. Once let the clarion note

And trump of loud ambition sound my name,

And for the rest I care not.'

Then to me,

In gentle voice, the angel made reply:

'Child, ignorant of the true happiness,

Nor knowing life's best wisdom, thou wert made

For light and love and laughter, not to waste

Thy youth in shooting arrows at the sun,

Or nurturing that ambition in thy soul

Whose deadly poison will infect thy heart,

Marring all joy and gladness! Tarry here

In the sweet confines of this garden-close

Whose level meads and glades delectable

Invite for pleasure; the wild bird that wakes

These silent dells with sudden melody

Shall be thy playmate; and each flower that blows

Shall twine itself unbidden in thy hair—

Garland more meet for thee than the dread weight

Of Glory's laurel wreath.'

'Ah! fruitless gifts,'

I cried, unheeding of her prudent word,

'Are all such mortal flowers, whose brief lives

Are bounded by the dawn and setting sun.

The anger of the noon can wound the rose,

And the rain rob the crocus of its gold: 283