By The Arno

. THE oleander on the wall

Grows crimson in the dawning light,

Though the grey shadows of the night

Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

The dew is bright upon the hill,

And bright the blossoms overhead,

But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,

The little Attic song is still.

Only the leaves are gently stirred

By the soft breathing of the gale,

And in the almond-scented vale

The lonely nightingale is heard.

The day will make thee silent soon,

O nightingale sing on for love!

While yet upon the shadowy grove

Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn

In sea-green mist the morning steals,

And to love's frightened eyes reveals

The long white fingers of the dawn

Fast climbing up the eastern sky

To grasp and slay the shuddering night,

All careless of my heart's delight,

Or if the nightingale should die.

.              THE oleander on the wall

Grows crimson in the dawning light,

Though the grey shadows of the night

Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

The dew is bright upon the hill,

And bright the blossoms overhead,

But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,

The little Attic song is still.

Only the leaves are gently stirred

By the soft breathing of the gale,

And in the almond-scented vale

The lonely nightingale is heard.

The day will make thee silent soon,

O nightingale sing on for love!

While yet upon the shadowy grove

Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn

In sea-green mist the morning steals,

And to love's frightened eyes reveals

The long white fingers of the dawn

Fast climbing up the eastern sky

To grasp and slay the shuddering night,

All careless of my heart's delight,

Or if the nightingale should die.

.              THE oleander on the wall
               Grows crimson in the dawning light,
               Though the grey shadows of the night
             Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

The dew is bright upon the hill,
               And bright the blossoms overhead,
               But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
             The little Attic song is still.

Only the leaves are gently stirred
               By the soft breathing of the gale,

And in the almond-scented vale
             The lonely nightingale is heard.

The day will make thee silent soon,
               O nightingale sing on for love!
               While yet upon the shadowy grove
             Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn
               In sea-green mist the morning steals,
               And to love's frightened eyes reveals
             The long white fingers of the dawn

Fast climbing up the eastern sky
               To grasp and slay the shuddering night,
               All careless of my heart's delight,
             Or if the nightingale should die.

Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde was an Anglo-Irish playwright, novelist, poet, and critic. He is regarded as one of the greatest playwrights of the Victorian Era. In his lifetime he wrote nine plays, one novel, and numerous poems, short stories, and essays. Wilde was a proponent of the Aesthetic movement, which emphasized aesthetic values more than moral or social themes. This doctrine is most clearly summarized in the phrase 'art for art's sake'. Besides literary accomplishments, he is also famous, or perhaps infamous, for his wit, flamboyance, and affairs with men. He was tried and imprisoned for his homosexual relationship (then considered a crime) with the son of an aristocrat.

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