'The Garden Of Eros' by Oscar Wilde
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It is full summer now, the heart of June,
Not yet the sun-burnt reapers are a-stir
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
Rich autumn time, the season's usurer,
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.
Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,
That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,
And like a strayed and wandering reveller
Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June's messenger
The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,
One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face
For fear of too much splendour,--ah! methinks it is a place
Which should be trodden by Persephone
When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!
Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!
The hidden secret of eternal bliss
Known to the Grecian here a man might find,
Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.
There are the flowers which mourning Herakles
Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,
Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze
Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,
That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,
And lilac lady's-smock,--but let them bloom alone, and leave
Yon spired holly-hock red-crocketed
To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,
Its little bellringer, go seek instead
Some other pleasaunce; the anemone
That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl
Their painted wings beside it,--bid it pine
In pale virginity; the winter snow
Will suit it better than those lips of thine
Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go
And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,
Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.
The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus
So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet
Whiter than Juno's throat and odorous
As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet
Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar
For any dappled fawn,--pluck these, and those fond flowers which are
Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon
Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,
That morning star which does not dread the sun,
And budding marjoram which but to kiss
Would sweeten Cytheræa's lips and make
Adonis jealous,--these for thy head,--and for thy girdle take
Yon curving spray of purple clematis
Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,
And fox-gloves with their nodding chalices,
But that one narciss which the startled Spring
Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard
In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer's bird,
Ah! leave it for a subtle memory
Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,
When April laughed between her tears to see
The early primrose with shy footsteps run
From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,
Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering
gold.
Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet
As thou thyself, my soul's idolatry!
And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet
Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,
For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride
And vail its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.
And I will cut a reed by yonder spring
And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan
Wonder what young intruder dares to sing
In these still haunts, where never foot of man
Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy
The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.
And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears
Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,
And why the hapless nightingale forbears
To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone
When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,
And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.
And I will sing how sad Proserpina
Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,
And lure the silver-breasted Helena
Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,
So shalt thou see that awful loveliness
For which two mighty Hosts met fearfuly in war's abyss!
And then I 'll pipe to thee that Grecian tale
How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,
And hidden in a grey and misty veil
Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun
Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase
Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.
And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,
We may behold Her face who long ago
Dwelt among men by the &Aelig;gean sea,
And whose sad house with pillaged portico
And friezeless wall and columns toppled down
Looms o'er the ruins of that fair and violet-cinctured town.
Spirit of Beauty! tarry still a-while,
They are not dead, thine ancient votaries,
Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile
Is better than a thousand victories,
Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo
Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few.
Who for thy sake would give their manlihood
And consecrate their being, I at least
Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,
And in thy temples found a goodlier feast
Than this starved age can give me, spite of all
Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.
Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,
The woods of white Colonos are not here,
On our bleak hills the olive never blows,
No simple priest conducts his lowing steer
Up the steep marble way, nor through the town
Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.
Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,
Whose very name should be a memory
To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest
Beneath the Roman walls, and melody
Still mourns her sweetest lyre, none can play
The lute of Adonais, with his lips Song passed away.
Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left
One silver voice to sing his threnody,
But ah! too soon of it we were bereft
When on that riven night and stormy sea
Panthea claimed her singer as her own,
And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone,
Save for that fiery heart, that morning star
Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye
Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy
Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring
The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,
And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,
And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot
In passionless and fierce virginity
Hunting the tuskéd boar, his honied lute
Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.
And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,
And sung the Galilæan's requiem,
That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,
And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.
Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,
It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
The star that shook above the Eastern hill
Holds unassailed its argent armoury
From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight--
O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,
Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer's child,
Dear heritor of Spenser's tuneful reed,
With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
The weary soul of man in troublous need,
And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
Has brought fair flowers meet to make an earthly paradise.
We know them all, Gudrun the strong men's bride,
Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
And what enchantment held the king in thrall
When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,
Long listless summer hours when the noon
Being enamoured of a damask rose
Forgets to journey westward, till the moon
The pale usurper of its tribute grows
From a thin sickle to a silver shield
And chides its loitering car--how oft, in some cool grassy field
Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,
At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
Almost before the blackbird finds a mate
And overstay the swallow, and the hum
Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,
Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,
And through their unreal woes and mimic pain
Wept for myself, and so was purified,
And in their simple mirth grew glad again;
For as I sailed upon that pictured tide
The strength and splendour of the storm was mine
Without the storm's red ruin, for the singer is divine,
The little laugh of water falling down
Is not so musical, the clammy gold
Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
Has less of sweetness in it, and the old
Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady
Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.
Spirit of Beauty tarry yet a-while!
Although the cheating merchants of the mart
With iron roads profane our lovely isle,
And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,
Ay! though the crowded factories beget
The blind-worm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!
For One at least there is,--He bears his name
From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,--
Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,
Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien's snare,
And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,
Loves thee so well, that all the World for him
A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,
And Sorrow take a purple diadem,
Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
Even in anguish beautiful;--such is the empery
Which Painters hold, and such the heritage
This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,
Being a better mirror of his age
In all his pity, love, and weariness,
Than those who can but copy common things,
And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.
But they are few, and all romance has flown,
And men can prophesy about the sun,
And lecture on his arrows--how, alone,
Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,
How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
And that no more 'mid English reeds a Naïad shows her head.
Methinks these new Actæons boast too soon
That they have spied on beauty; what if we
Have analyzed the rainbow, robbed the moon
Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,
Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope
Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!
What profit if this scientific age
Burst through our gates with all its retinue
Of modern miracles! Can it assuage
One lover's breaking heart? what can it do
To make one life more beautiful, one day
More god-like in its period? but now the Age of Clay
Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
Hath borne again a noisy progeny
Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
Hurls them against the august hierarchy
Which sat upon Olympus, to the Dust
They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must
Repair for judgment, let them, if they can,
From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,
Create the new Ideal rule for man!
Methinks that was not my inheritance;
For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul
Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.
Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away
Her visage from the God, and Hecate's boat
Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day
Blew all its torches out: I did not note
The waning hours, to young Endymions
Time's palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!--
Mark how the yellow iris wearily
Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed
By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,
Who, like a blue vein on a girl's white wrist,
Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,
Which 'gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.
Come let us go, against the pallid shield
Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,
The corn-crake nested in the unmown field
Answers its mate, across the misty stream
On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,
And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,
Scatters the pearléd dew from off the grass,
In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,
Who soon in gilded panoply will pass
Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion
Hung in the burning east, see, the red rim
O'ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him
Already the shrill lark is out of sight,
Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,--
Ah! there is something more in that bird's flight
Than could be tested in a crucible!--
But the air freshens, let us go,--why soon
The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!
Editor 1 Interpretation
The Garden of Eros by Oscar Wilde: An Enchanting Tale of Love and Sensuality
As I leafed through the pages of Oscar Wilde's collection of poetry, I stumbled upon a piece that caught my eye - The Garden of Eros. A classic work of art that speaks to the heart and soul of every romantic, this poem is a testament to Wilde's prowess as a master of language and storytelling.
With its vivid imagery and sensual themes, The Garden of Eros is a literary masterpiece that transports the reader to a world of passion and desire. From the very first line, Wilde's words weave a spell that enchants and fascinates, drawing the reader deeper and deeper into the lush garden of Eros.
The Setting and Imagery
The setting of The Garden of Eros is a lush and verdant garden, filled with exotic flowers and fragrant herbs. Wilde's imagery is rich and vivid, painting a picture of a world that is both sensual and mysterious.
"Strange moonlit blossoms with their dim gold hair,
The weaker tremble in a mist of tears;
The older rustle with a hundred fears,
And cry - 'The world, ah, wherefore art thou fair?'"
The imagery in these lines is breathtaking, conjuring up a scene of delicate flowers bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. The use of personification adds an element of mystery and intrigue, as the flowers are given voices and emotions that reflect the human experience.
The Themes of Love and Desire
At its core, The Garden of Eros is a celebration of love and desire. Throughout the poem, Wilde explores the many facets of these complex emotions, from the intense passion of new love to the pain of loss and heartbreak.
"Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!"
These lines capture the bittersweet nature of love, as well as its potential for both joy and sorrow. Wilde's use of irony and paradox adds depth to the poem, highlighting the contradictions and complexities that are inherent in the human experience of love.
The Role of Sensuality
One of the most striking elements of The Garden of Eros is its sensuality. Wilde's use of language is lush and evocative, imbuing the poem with a sense of physicality and desire that is palpable.
"The purple mist of love
Floats all the time about your face;
Or like the silver snare of love,
That follows through the dancing lace."
These lines are a prime example of Wilde's skill in using language to evoke sensuality. The use of color, texture, and movement creates a vivid and sensual image that speaks to the power of physical desire.
The Idea of Beauty
Beauty is a recurring theme in The Garden of Eros, with Wilde exploring its many manifestations and its relationship to love and desire.
"Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,"
These lines capture the idea of beauty as something that is fleeting and ephemeral, yet also deeply meaningful. Wilde's use of exclamation and repetition creates a sense of urgency and intensity, emphasizing the importance of living fully in the present moment.
Conclusion
In conclusion, The Garden of Eros is a masterpiece of poetry that speaks to the heart and soul of every romantic. With its vivid imagery, sensual themes, and exploration of love, desire, and beauty, this poem is a timeless work of art that continues to inspire and enchant readers to this day. Oscar Wilde's skill as a wordsmith is on full display in this enchanting tale of love and sensuality, making it a must-read for anyone who appreciates the power of language and the human experience of love.
Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation
The Garden of Eros: A Masterpiece of Sensuality and Beauty
Oscar Wilde, the renowned Irish poet, playwright, and novelist, is known for his flamboyant and decadent lifestyle, as well as his witty and satirical works. However, he also had a profound talent for writing poetry that captured the essence of love, desire, and beauty. One of his most celebrated poems is "The Garden of Eros," a sensual and evocative piece that explores the themes of pleasure, passion, and mortality. In this analysis, we will delve into the rich imagery, symbolism, and language of this classic poem and uncover its hidden meanings and messages.
The poem begins with a vivid description of a garden, a place of beauty and delight that is inhabited by the god of love, Eros. The garden is a metaphor for the human soul, which is also a place of beauty and delight, but also a place of darkness and mystery. The opening lines set the tone for the rest of the poem, which is a journey of discovery and exploration of the human psyche and its deepest desires.
"Within the garden of Eros,
I saw a face I knew before,
A face that charmed me long ago,
A face I shall see nevermore."
These lines introduce the central theme of the poem, which is the transience of love and beauty. The speaker sees a familiar face in the garden, a face that once charmed him but is now gone forever. This face represents a lost love or a memory of a past happiness that can never be regained. The use of the word "nevermore" emphasizes the finality and irrevocability of this loss, and sets the stage for the speaker's journey of self-discovery and acceptance.
The next stanza describes the beauty and sensuality of the garden, which is filled with flowers, fruits, and birds. The imagery is rich and vivid, and the language is lush and musical. The use of alliteration and repetition creates a hypnotic and dreamlike atmosphere, as if the speaker is under a spell of enchantment.
"The lilies in the water-lane
Bent down to kiss her feet;
Shimmering flowers of the moon
Lit up the margins of her seat;
There was a scent of apple-bloom
And the musk of honey in the air;
She came, her hair was in a swoon,
And the waves grew strangely fair."
These lines depict a scene of seduction and temptation, as the speaker is lured deeper into the garden by the beauty and allure of the goddess of love. The use of sensual imagery, such as the lilies bending down to kiss her feet and the scent of apple-bloom and honey, creates a sense of intimacy and closeness. The waves growing "strangely fair" suggests a mystical and otherworldly quality to the scene, as if the speaker is entering a realm of magic and enchantment.
The third stanza introduces the theme of mortality and the fleeting nature of life. The speaker sees a vision of a "pale, sad, haggard face" that reminds him of the inevitability of death and decay. The use of contrast between the beauty of the garden and the ugliness of death creates a sense of tension and unease, as if the speaker is confronted with the harsh reality of life.
"And then I saw the sad grey ghosts,
The spirits of the dead,
Who walked among the trees and flowers,
And whispered in my head."
These lines suggest that the speaker is not alone in the garden, but is surrounded by the spirits of the dead who haunt him with their whispers and reminders of mortality. The use of personification, ascribing human qualities to the trees and flowers, creates a sense of eerie and unsettling atmosphere, as if the garden is alive with the presence of the dead.
The fourth stanza explores the theme of desire and longing, as the speaker sees a vision of a woman who embodies his deepest desires and passions. The use of metaphor and symbolism creates a sense of mystery and ambiguity, as if the woman is both real and imaginary, both present and absent.
"I saw her by the water's edge,
Her feet in the silver stream;
Her hair was like a golden fleece,
Her eyes a sapphire gleam;
I knew her by her wild white rose,
Her lily hand, her tender tone;
I knew her by the way she chose
To call my name alone."
These lines depict a scene of intense desire and longing, as the speaker is drawn to the woman by her beauty and charm. The use of metaphor, such as her hair being like a golden fleece and her eyes a sapphire gleam, creates a sense of otherworldly and ethereal quality to her appearance. The repetition of the phrase "I knew her" emphasizes the speaker's familiarity and intimacy with the woman, as if he has known her all his life.
The final stanza brings the poem to a close with a sense of acceptance and resignation. The speaker realizes that the garden of Eros is a place of both pleasure and pain, of beauty and decay, of life and death. He accepts the transience of love and beauty, and embraces the inevitability of mortality.
"I saw the shadow of her lips,
The shadow of her wings,
And knew that she was gone;
And when I turned me to the west,
And saw the skies like gold and brass
Above the empty house of love,
And the dead leaves in the pass,
I knew that all was over,
And that nothing could be said."
These lines suggest a sense of closure and finality, as if the speaker has come to terms with his loss and has moved on. The use of imagery, such as the shadow of her lips and wings, creates a sense of absence and emptiness, as if the woman has vanished into thin air. The final lines, "And that nothing could be said," emphasize the ineffability and mystery of love and beauty, as if they are beyond words and comprehension.
In conclusion, "The Garden of Eros" is a masterpiece of sensuality and beauty, a poem that explores the themes of love, desire, and mortality with depth and richness. The use of vivid imagery, lush language, and symbolism creates a sense of enchantment and mystery, as if the reader is transported to a realm of magic and wonder. The poem is a testament to Wilde's talent as a poet and his ability to capture the essence of human emotions and experiences.
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