Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
The speaker compares the humbleness and poverty the Church was originally founded from to the grand pope with royal garments who preaches now. Juxtaposition and hypocrisy are commonly mocked in Wilde’s novel and his poetry–though he is quite notorious for being a hypocrite and contradicting himself...
The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendor and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
"Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise My feet, and drink wine salt with tears."