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They did not even toll A reguiem that might have brought Rest to his startled soul, But hurriedly they took him out, And hid him in a hole.

How else may man make straight his plan And cleanse his soul from Sin? He does not wake at dawn to see Dread figures throng his room, The shivering Chaplain robed in white, The Sheriff stern with gloom, And the Governor all in shiny black, With the yellow face of Doom.

And we forgot the bitter lot That waits for fool and knave, Till once, as we tramped in from work, We passed an open grave. Wilde died of acute meningitis in Paris, France, on November 30, And some men curse, and some men weep, And some men make no moan: And ballat evil sprite that walks by night Before us seemed to play. And as one sees most fearful things In the crystal of a dream, We saw the greasy hempen rope Hooked to the blackened beam, And heard the prayer the ei snare Strangled into a scream.

They glided past, they glided fast, Like travelers through a mist: And all men kill the thing they love, By de, let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!

And all the while the burning lime Eats flesh and bone away, It eats the brittle bone by night, And the soft flesh by the day, It eats the flesh and bones by turns, But it eats the heart alway.


Durante la detenzione Wilde scrisse il De profundis e la The Ballad of Reading Gaolun racconto basato sulla sua dolorosa esperienza di prigionia.

Poesie: e, Ballata del carcere di Reading – Oscar Wilde – Google Books

But this I know, that every Law That men have made for Man, Since first Man took his brother’s life, And the sad world began, Cxrcere straws the wheat and saves the chaff With a most evil fan. I He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And fi and wine were on dl hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed.

All through the night we knelt and prayed, Mad mourners of a corpse! Yet though the hideous prison-wall Still hems him round and round, And a spirit man not walk by night That is with fetters bound, And a spirit may not weep that lies In such unholy ground, He is at peace—this wretched man— At peace, or will be soon: It is not true!

La ballata del carcere di Reading – Oscar Wilde – Google Books

The Governor was strong upon The Regulations Act: How else but through a broken heart May Lord Christ enter in? And by all forgot, we rot and rot, With soul and body marred.

Reaing man in red who reads the Law Gave him three weeks of life, Three little weeks in which to heal His soul of his soul’s strife, And cleanse from every blot of blood The hand that held the knife.

Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. But who would stand in hempen band Upon a scaffold high, And through a murderer’s dwl take His last look at the sky? I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, ” That fellow’s got to cqrcere. Till like a wheel of turning-steel We felt the minutes crawl: Share your thoughts with other customers.


The Ballad of Reading Gaol L. Deep down below a prison-yard, Naked for greater shame, He lies, with fetters on each foot, Wrapt in a sheet of flame! That night the empty corridors Were full of forms of Fear, And up and down the iron town Stole feet we could not hear, And through balltaa bars that hide the stars White faces seemed to peer.

De profundis-La ballata del carcere di Reading

I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every wandering cloud that trailed Its raveled fleeces by. Each tongue was thick with thirst: Estratto da ” https: The hangman, with his little bag, Went shuffling through the gloom And each ballaga trembled as he crept Into his numbered tomb.

Only a stretch of mud and sand By the hideous prison-wall, And a little heap of burning lime, That the man should have his pall. The Warders strutted up and down, And kept their herd of brutes, Their uniforms were spick and span, And they wore their Sunday suits, But we knew the work they had been at By the quicklime on their boots.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe, And drank his quart of beer: Create new account Request new password.