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And the [Wilde] regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one.
More deaths than one must die.
OSCAR WILDE
In some ways I am glad
I can relax –
I leave no weighty tracks
But markless pad.
I shall not live but be,
And that is fine –
Life, being art, must shine,
But I am free
To dwell in mediocrity.
No pressure to perform
Shall vex my brow,
Nor wondrous vice bestow
Its ravage warm.
I etherised exist,
And unheard die;
And torpid hours pass by,
See me unkissed
By note – What have I really missed?
Note’s manna must corrupt.
I taste it not.
Already are forgot
Scant sins I supt.
Ay, sweet they were, the lost
Mistakes which stoke
A real heart (one broke) .
My days are mossed;
How deftly I avoided cost.
Relief it is to know
I need not strive;
Enough to be alive,
I need not glow.
The few who brightly burn
In memory,
Through fire more speedily
To soot return.
The dear dark’s comfort shall I learn.
And you, dear Oscar, smile
To see me slight
My senses; “Hypocrite”,
For my denial,
“Experience’s dunce”,
You call me: True.
I’m happier than you,
With humble runts.
You poisoned me with a book once.
All should read it, Wilde,
It is the truth.
But lies are not uncouth;
Life, undefiled
And pure, is such a lie.
‘To try it all’ –
An easy prayer to call
And code to try.
The hardest maxim is, ‘Should I? ’
I know I asked myself –
How frequently? –
If sweet simplicity
Was impish elf
To difficulty’s saint;
Was the old charge
That ease is by and large
A sign of faint
Heart true, or was it fool’s complaint?
Sometimes, they who take
The easy route
Are braver; and I moot
They are less fake.
They heed their senses each;
Few dare to sate
Desire and answer Fate.
They let her teach;
Take roads she lays within their reach.
But pupils to your code,
Though standing tall,
Stand all alone or fall,
Whilst still they goad
The mean to mimic them.
In truth they quake,
Hope loneliness to break
And diadem
To keep and glory not to stem.
But no, far-seeing sage,
There are two worlds,
And no-one may glue worlds.
The icons of an age
May try, but they shall fail,
As you too did.
This, friend, is why I bid
Adieu, the veil
Draw on ambition and tuck tail.
How happy hermits are.
Four walls are friends.
There are no flaming ends
When roof screens star.
Now I shall have my time,
My slippers, pipe;
No doubt I shall gripe
At tax and crime,
And scarcely hear the hours chime.
I shun the dreams I had.
A wrinkle now
Is every high-hoped vow.
The drone is glad.
Such numbness is the key;
You knew it late,
Only when the grate,
The parting plea,
Of sober iron set you free.
It shall not be quite so with me.
O Oscar! But the blind men see.
Samuel Reed
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