Nay,
Lord, not thus! white lilies in the
spring,
Sad
olive groves, or silver-breasted dove,
Teach
me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than
terrors of red flame and thundering.
The
empurpled vines dear memories of Thee bring:
A
bird at evening flying to its nest,
Tells
me of One who had no place of rest:
I
think it is of thee the sparrows sing.
Come
rather on some autumn afternoon,
When
red and brown are burnished on the leaves,
And
the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,
Come
when the splendid fulness of the moon
Looks
down upon the rows of golden sheaves,
And
reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.
--Oscar Wilde,
Sonnet on hearing the
Dies Iræ sung in
the Sistine Chapel (1881)
Image source: Jean-François Millet, The Gleaners (1857),
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