The Internet Poetry Archive

The New Remorse

Oscar Wilde

The sin was mine; I did not understand.
   So now is music prisoned in her cave,
   Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
   Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
   That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.
But who is this who cometh by the shore?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this
   Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?
It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
   The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,
And I shall weep and worship, as before.

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