Listen to my music

Welcome to Sharepoems.com

Meant as a tribute to women, love and poetry, this site contains over 700 acrostics in english and in French. The more interesting poems being Acrostic Crosswords, a hybrid between acrostics and crosswords.

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Acrostic Poem For Roses and Rue - Oscar Wilde

Could we dig up this long-buried treasure, 
Were it worth the pleasure, 
We never could learn love's song, 
We are parted too long 
 
Could the passionate past that is fled 
Call back its dead, 
Could we live it all over again, 
Were it worth the pain! 
 
I remember we used to meet 
By an ivied seat, 
And you warbled each pretty word 
With the air of a bird; 
 
And your voice had a quaver in it, 
Just like a linnet, 
And shook, as the blackbird's throat 
With its last big note; 
 
And your eyes, they were green and grey 
Like an April day, 
But lit into amethyst 
When I stooped and kissed; 
 
And your mouth, it would never smile 
For a long, long while, 
Then it rippled all over with laughter 
Five minutes after. 
 
You were always afraid of a shower, 
Just like a flower: 
I remember you started and ran 
When the rain began. 
 
I remember I never could catch you, 
For no one could match you, 
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet, 
Little wings to your feet. 
 
I remember your hair - did I tie it? 
For it always ran riot - 
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold: 
These things are old. 
 
I remember so well the room, 
And the lilac bloom 
That beat at the dripping pane 
In the warm June rain; 
 
And the colour of your gown, 
It was amber-brown, 
And two yellow satin bows 
From the shoulders rose. 
 
And the handkerchief of French lace 
Which you held to your face- 
Had a small tear left a stain? 
Or was it the rain? 
 
On your hand as it waved adieu 
There were veins of blue; 
In your voice as it said good-bye 
Was a petulant cry, 
 
"You have only wasted your life." 
Ah, that was the knife! 
When I rushed through the garden gate 
It was all too late. 
 
Could we live it over again, 
Were it worth the pain, 
Could the passionate past that is fled 
Call back its dead! 
 
Well, if my heart must break, 
Dear love, for your sake, 
It will break in music, I know, 
Poets' hearts break so. 
 
But strange that I was not told 
That the brain can hold 
In a tiny ivory cell 
God's heaven and hell.