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For he who sins a second time Wakes a dead soul to pain, And draws it from its spotted shroud, And makes it bleed again, And makes it bleed great gouts of blood And makes it bleed in vain! But neither milk-white rose nor red May bloom deo prison air; The shard, the pebble, and the flint, Are what they give us there: For three long years the unblessed spot Will sterile be and bare, And look upon the wondering sky With unreproachful stare.
Oscar Wilde al Reading Gaol – Wikipedia
And by all forgot, we rot and rot, With soul and body marred. This poem is in the public domain. And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, And clattered with the pails.
We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, We turned the dusty ballatz He plays with everything: Smithersa long poem describing the horrors Wilde faced in prison, was published in under the pseudonym C.
It is sweet to dance to violins When Love reafing Life are fair: But though lean Hunger and green Thirst Like asp with adder fight, We have little care of prison fare, For what chills and kills outright Is that every stone one lifts by day Becomes one’s heart by night.
With the mincing step of demirep Some sidled up the stairs: Per questo scrisse al direttore readint carcere sperando in una diminuzione della condanna. About, about, in ghostly rout They trod a saraband: Niente servizio in chiesa. He does not stare upon the air Through a little roof of glass; He does not pray with fi of clay For his agony to pass; Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek The kiss of Caiaphas.
So they kept us close till nigh on noon, And then they rang the bell, And the Warders with their jingling keys Opened each listening cell, And down the iron stair we tramped, Each from his separate Hell. Wilde died of acute meningitis in Paris, France, on November 30, At six o’clock we cleaned our cells, At seven all was still, But the sough and swing of a mighty wing The prison seemed to fill, For the Lord of Death with icy breath Had entered in to kill.
Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb With crooked arrows starred, Dfl we went round de, round The slippery asphalte yard; Silently we went round and round, And no man spoke a word.
Oscar Wilde al Reading Gaol
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, Each helped us at our prayers. He lay as one who lies and dreams In a pleasant meadow-land, The watcher watched him as he slept, And could not understand How one could sleep so sweet a sleep With a hangman close at hand?
Silently we went round and round, And through each hollow mind The memory of dreadful things Rushed like a dreadful wind, And Horror stalked before each man, And terror crept behind. Or else he sat with those who watched His anguish night and day; Who watched him when he rose to weep, And when he crouched to pray; Who watched him lest himself should rob Their scaffold of its prey. Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: In celebration of the Irish poets who have changed how we think about Around, around, they waltzed and wound; Some wheeled in smirking pairs: It slays the weak, it slays the strong, It has a deadly stride: Per la sua passione per le lunghe letture e a causa della scarsa illuminazione della cella ebbe anche dei fastidi agli occhi.
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Lo stesso argomento in dettaglio: So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave— That endless vigil kept, And through each brain on hands of pain Another’s terror crept. Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin, Ireland, on October 16, Vedi le condizioni d’uso per i dettagli.
Out of his mouth a red, red rose! Be the first to review this item. His cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay, But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day.