The Writings of Oscar Wilde/Volume 1/Tædium Vitæ

To stab my youth with desparate knives, to wear This paltrey age's gaudy livery, To let each base hand filch my treasury, To mesh my soul within a woman's hair, And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom,&mdash;I swear I love it not! These things are less to me Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea, Less than the thistle-down of summer air Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in, Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.