REQUIESCAT

camdentownstation:

By: Oscar Wilde

Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.

(via )

Source: on-melancholy-hill02

boysgonewilde:

kaiserbund:

Today I got to look at this autographed photo of Oscar Wilde from 1882, which somehow ended up in the archives of the horribly second-rate university in my hometown. It had been given by Oscar to a Mrs. Montrell, the grandmother of Dr. H. Graham DuBois, who was a staff member at the university.

The note says, “To Mrs. Montrell, my uncle’s old and loved friend, from Oscar Wilde. Jan. 26th, 82.” The bit in the bottom left-hand corner says “Baltimore. Thursday.”

super, super cool!

(via )

Source: sissybutton

There is no such thing as a good influence. Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtures are not real to him. His sins, if there are such thing as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of someone else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him.
Oscar Wilde (The Picture of Dorian Gray)

I’m so jealous of Olivia Wilde

I mean SERIOUSLY

She’s fucking gorgeous - I mean really - one of most attractive people I’ve ever seen

She got to be on House - and just be called “Thirteen” - That’s cool

SHE’S MARRIED TO A PRINCE (ehem, an “Italian-American documentary filmmaker flamenco guitar player” PRINCE)

She gets to be O. Wilde.  Oscar.  Wilde.