---------------------------------------------------------------------------- This file was prepared and is ©2022 by Keygen Ltd LLC for The Proud Reader™ project. https://theproudreader.com/ https://k3y93n.com/ https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHnUg4W9wkn2ISDoCxucd_A https://www.bitchute.com/theproudreader/ https://rumble.com/c/TheProudReader https://odysee.com/@TheProudReader:c https://www.minds.com/TheProudReader https://gab.com/TheProudReader https://parler.com/profile/TheProudReader https://twitter.com/TheProudReader https://www.patreon.com/TheProudReader https://www.subscribestar.com/theproudreader https://www.paypal.com/biz/fund?id=5GFSVWEHUPK66 This document is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International license (CC BY-SA 4.0) https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/ Keygen Ltd LLC provides no warranty as to the accuracy of the information or text included in this document. It is provided "as is" and is for entertainment purposes. However, the text below this paragraph is in the public domain, is not subject to the above license, and may be used freely on its own as you see fit—for commercial and non-commercial purposes. Only this document as a whole falls under the CC BY-SA 4.0. If you do use the below text, we would still appreciate a nod since we did the hard work and fixed OCR errors in many cases, but attribution is only required if you modify and redistribute this file. Enjoy! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Apologia Oscar Wilde published in Poems By Oscar Wilde, page 177-178 by London: Methuen & co. Ltd., 1878 IS it thy will that I should wax and wane, Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey, And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day? Is it thy will—Love that I love so well— That my Soul's House should be a tortured spot Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not? Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure, And sell ambition at the common mart, And let dull failure be my vestiture, And sorrow dig its grave within my heart. Perchance it may be better so—at least I have not made my heart a heart of stone, Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast, Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown. Many a man hath done so ; sought to fence In straitened bonds the soul that should be free, Trodden the dusty road of common sense, While all the forest sang of liberty, Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air, To where the steep untrodden mountain height Caught the last tresses of the Sun God's hair. Or how the little flower he trod upon, The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold, Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun Content if once its leaves were aureoled. But surely it is something to have been The best beloved for a little while, To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen His purple wings flit once across thy smile. Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feed On my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars, Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!