The Writings of Oscar Wilde/Volume 1/Wasted Days

A fair slim boy not made for this world's pain

With hair of gold thick clustering round his ears,

And longing eyes half veiled by foolish tears

Like bluest water seen through mists of rain;

Pale cheeks whereon no kiss hath left its stain,

Red under-lip drawn in for fear of love,

And white throat whiter than the breast of dove -

Alas! Alas! If all should be in vain,

Corn-fields behind, and reapers all a-row

In weariest labour, toiling wearily

To no sweet sound of laughter, or of lute;

And careless of the crimson sunset-glow,

The boy still dreams, nor knows that night is night,

And in the night-time no man gathers fruit.