Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/298

 But thine immortal coronal of Fame,

Thy crown of deathless laurel, this alone

Age cannot harm, nor winter's icy tooth

Pierce to its hurt, nor common things profane.'

No answer made the angel, but her face

Dimmed with the mists of pity.

Then methought

That from mine eyes, wherein ambition's torch

Burned with its latest and most ardent flame,

Flashed forth two level beams of straitened light,

Beneath whose fulgent fires the laurel crown

Twisted and curled, as when the Sirian star

Withers the ripening corn, and one pale leaf

Fell on my brow; and I leapt up and felt

The mighty pulse of Fame, and heard far off

The sound of many nations praising me!

One fiery-coloured moment of great life!

And then—how barren was the nations' praise!

How vain the trump of Glory! Bitter thorns

Were in that laurel leaf, whose toothèd barbs

Burned and bit deep till fire and red flame

Seemed to feed full upon my brain, and make

The garden a bare desert.

With wild hands

1 strove to tear it from my bleeding brow,

But all in vain; and with a dolorous cry

That paled the lingering stars before their time, 284