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by Oscar Wilde

TO drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?--
Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over on some boyish holiday
With idle songs for pipe and virelay
Which do but mar the secret of the whole.
Surely there was a time I might have trod
The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance 10
Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God:
Is that tine dead? lo! with a little rod
I did but touch the honey of romance--
And must I lose a soul's inheritance?