The True Knowledge, by Oscar Wilde

27 February 2012

[Epigraph: “It is inevitable that life should be harvested like a crop that is ripe, and one man should die while another lives.” (Euripides, Hypsipile)]

Thou knowest all; I seek in vain
What lands to till or sow with seed–
The land is black with briar and weed,
Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

Thou knowest all; I sit and wait
With blinded eyes and hands that fail,
Till the last lifting of the veil
And the first opening of the gate.

Thou knowest all; I cannot see.
I trust I shall not live in vain,
I know that we shall meet again
In some divine eternity.


A counterpoint to the Yeats poem I posted recently. And in looking for a version to rip from and perhaps redirect you somewhere else, this poem offers quite some choices – from the mixture of satisfaction at finding someone who had posted it precisely a year ago but paired it with a very sententious sunset-on-a-field-of-flowers bit of photoshop, to the inadvertent discovery of many, many animated gifs of completely ripped male torsos. I had to copy the epigraph out myself, but that’s not the end of the world, is it?


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