Page:Writings of Oscar Wilde - Volume 01.djvu/88

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THE WRITINGS OF OSCAR WILDE.
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 wasmine 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!
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