And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines, Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines. And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood Where I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood; From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in the sun. And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow, And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow; Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass, The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass. And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers, While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours; From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue Like sunbeams chained for a banner the thread-like gossamers flew. And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt that our world was young With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung. So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way, Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay; For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god's shrine, And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line. But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores, And shone on our boat's red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars, And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a twilight sea, From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.
"It is fair to accept the statement of his [Wilde's] own ground, in his preface to the decorative verse of his friend Rennell Rodd, though one doubts whether Gautier would not have dubbed the twain _joints brodeurs_, rather than _jeunes guerriers, du drapeau romantique_. The apostles of our Lord were filled, like them, with a 'passionate ambition to go forth into far and fair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for the world.' But not until many centuries had passed were their texts illuminated to the extent displayed by Mr. Rodd and his printer, with their resources of India-paper, apple-green tissue, vellum, and all the rarities desired by those who die of a rose in aromatic pain. Yet the verse of _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ is not so effeminate as one would suppose."