Explore "The New Remorse" by Oscar Wilde on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.