"they smiled, they laughed, they praised / they drove poor Oscar to his grave"
Sweet youth,
Tell me why, sad and sighing, dost thou rove
These pleasant realms? I pray thee tell me sooth,
What is thy name?’ He said: ‘My name is Love’,
Then straight the first did turn himself to me,
And cried: ‘He lieth, for his name is Shame.
But I am Love, and I was wont to be
Alone in this fair garden, till he came
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.’
Then sighing said the other: ‘Have thy will;
I am the Love that dare not speak its name.’
I never seek to take the credit;
We all assume that Oscar said it.
Tell me why, sad and sighing, dost thou rove
These pleasant realms? I pray thee tell me sooth,
What is thy name?’ He said: ‘My name is Love’,
Then straight the first did turn himself to me,
And cried: ‘He lieth, for his name is Shame.
But I am Love, and I was wont to be
Alone in this fair garden, till he came
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.’
Then sighing said the other: ‘Have thy will;
I am the Love that dare not speak its name.’
ur Lord Alfred Douglas dikt “Two Loves”. Ändå recenserar i dagens DN Stefan Jonsson boken Gay. En världshistoria, och diskuterar vad en målning av Jacopo da Pontormo kan tänkas föreställa: ”en kärlek av det slag som inte törs säga sitt namn, som Oscar Wilde uttryckte det fyra hundra år senare”. Det är som Dorothy Parker skrev (hoppas jag!):
If, with the literate, I am
Impelled to try an epigram,I never seek to take the credit;
We all assume that Oscar said it.
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"Not all the bloggers of a thousand years
Can open Parisian graves. No."
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