FABIEN DEI FRANCHI
TO MY FRIEND HENRY IRVING
THE silent room, the heavy creeping shade,
The dead that travel fast, the opening door,
The murdered brother rising through the floor,
The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,
And then the lonely duel in the glade,
The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,
Thy grand eyes when all is o’er,—
These things are well enough,—but thou wert made
For more august creation!
TO MY FRIEND HENRY IRVING
THE silent room, the heavy creeping shade,
The dead that travel fast, the opening door,
The murdered brother rising through the floor,
The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,
And then the lonely duel in the glade,
The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,
Thy grand eyes when all is o’er,—
These things are well enough,—but thou wert made
For more august creation!
Wilde - Selected Poems
