# The Poems of Oscar Wilde/Sen Artysty; or, the Artist's Dream

SEN ARTYSTY; OR, THE ARTIST'S DREAM
FROM THE POLISH OF MADAME HELENA MODJESKA
I too have had my dreams: ay, known indeed The crowded visions of a fiery youth Which haunt me still. ...... Methought that once I lay Within some garden close, what time the Spring Breaks like a bird from Winter, and the sky Is sapphire-vaulted. The pure air was soft, And the deep grass I lay on soft as air. The strange and secret life of the young trees Swelled in the green and tender bark, or burst To buds of sheathèd emerald; violets Peered from their nooks of hiding, half afraid Of their own loveliness; the vermeil rose Opened its heart, and the bright star-flower Shone like a star of morning. Butterflies, In painted liveries of brown and gold, Took the shy bluebells as their pavilions And seats of pleasaunce; overhead a bird ​Made snow of all the blossoms as it flew To charm the woods with singing: the whole world Seemed waking to delight! And yet—and yet— My soul was filled with leaden heaviness: I had no joy in Nature; what to me, Ambition's slave, was crimson-stainèd rose Or the gold-sceptred crocus? The bright bird Sang out of tune for me, and the sweet flowers Seemed but a pageant, and an unreal show That mocked my heart; for, like the fabled snake That stings itself to anguish, so I lay Self-tortured, self-tormented. The day crept Unheeded on the dial, till the sun Dropt, purple-sailed, into the gorgeous East, When, from the fiery heart of that great orb, Came One whose shape of beauty far outshone The most bright vision of this common earth. Girt was she in a robe more white than flame Or furnace-heated brass; upon her head She bare a laurel crown, and, like a star That falls from the high heaven suddenly, Passed to my side. Then kneeling low, I cried 'O much-desired! O long-waited for! Immortal Glory! Great world-conqueror! Oh, let me not die crownless; once, at least, ​Let thine imperial laurels bind my brows, Ignoble else. Once let the clarion note And trump of loud ambition sound my name, And for the rest I care not.' Then to me, In gentle voice, the angel made reply: 'Child, ignorant of the true happiness, Nor knowing life's best wisdom, thou wert made For light and love and laughter, not to waste Thy youth in shooting arrows at the sun, Or nurturing that ambition in thy soul Whose deadly poison will infect thy heart, Marring all joy and gladness! Tarry here In the sweet confines of this garden-close Whose level meads and glades delectable Invite for pleasure; the wild bird that wakes These silent dells with sudden melody Shall be thy playmate; and each flower that blows Shall twine itself unbidden in thy hair— Garland more meet for thee than the dread weight Of Glory's laurel wreath.' 'Ah! fruitless gifts,' I cried, unheeding of her prudent word, 'Are all such mortal flowers, whose brief lives Are bounded by the dawn and setting sun. The anger of the noon can wound the rose, And the rain rob the crocus of its gold: ​But thine immortal coronal of Fame, Thy crown of deathless laurel, this alone Age cannot harm, nor winter's icy tooth Pierce to its hurt, nor common things profane.' No answer made the angel, but her face Dimmed with the mists of pity. Then methought That from mine eyes, wherein ambition's torch Burned with its latest and most ardent flame, Flashed forth two level beams of straitened light, Beneath whose fulgent fires the laurel crown Twisted and curled, as when the Sirian star Withers the ripening corn, and one pale leaf Fell on my brow; and I leapt up and felt The mighty pulse of Fame, and heard far off The sound of many nations praising me! ...... One fiery-coloured moment of great life! And then—how barren was the nations' praise! How vain the trump of Glory! Bitter thorns Were in that laurel leaf, whose toothèd barbs Burned and bit deep till fire and red flame Seemed to feed full upon my brain, and make The garden a bare desert. With wild hands I strove to tear it from my bleeding brow, But all in vain; and with a dolorous cry That paled the lingering stars before their time, ​I waked at last, and saw the timorous dawn Peer with grey face into my darkened room, And would have deemed it a mere idle dream But for this restless pain that gnaws my heart, And the red wounds of thorns upon my brow.