Tdium Vit

Oscar Wilde

          To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear
          This paltry age's gaudy livery,
          To let each base hand filch my treasury,
          To mesh my soul within a woman's hair,
          And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom,--I swear
          I love it not! these things are less to me
          Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,
          Less than the thistle-down of summer air
          Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof
          Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life
          Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof
          Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,
          Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
          Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.

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