Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/99

 Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn

These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,

For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield

Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose

Which all day long in vales Æolian

A lad might seek in vain for over-grows

Our hedges like a wanton courtesan

Unthrifty of its beauty, lilies too

Ilissus never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue

Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs

For swallows going south, would never spread

Their azure tents between the Attic vines;

Even that little weed of ragged red,

Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady

Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames

Which to awake were sweeter ravishment

Than ever Syrinx wept for, diadems

Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant 85