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The Ballad Of Reading Gaol Analysis

Author: Poetry of Oscar Wilde Type: Poetry Views: 1438

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The Ballad Of Reading Gaol

(In memoriam

C. T. W.

Sometime trooper of the Royal Horse Guards

obiit H.M. prison, Reading, Berkshire

July 7, 1896)


He did not wear his scarlet coat,

For blood and wine are red,

And blood and wine were on his hands

When they found him with the dead,

The poor dead woman whom he loved,

And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men

In a suit of shabby grey;

A cricket cap was on his head,

And his step seemed light and gay;

But I never saw a man who looked

So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked

With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went

With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,

Within another ring,

And was wondering if the man had done

A great or little thing,

When a voice behind me whispered low,


Dear Christ! the very prison walls

Suddenly seemed to reel,

And the sky above my head became

Like a casque of scorching steel;

And, though I was a soul in pain,

My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought

Quickened his step, and why

He looked upon the garish day

With such a wistful eye;

The man had killed the thing he loved,

And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,

And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame

On a day of dark disgrace,

Nor have a noose about his neck,

Nor a cloth upon his face,

Nor drop feet foremost through the floor

Into an empty space.

He does not sit with silent men

Who watch him night and day;

Who watch him when he tries to weep,

And when he tries to pray;

Who watch him lest himself should rob

The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see

Dread figures throng his room,

The shivering Chaplain robed in white,

The Sheriff stern with gloom,

And the Governor all in shiny black,

With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste

To put on convict-clothes,

While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats,

and notes

Each new and nerve-twitched pose,

Fingering a watch whose little ticks

Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst

That sands one's throat, before

The hangman with his gardener's gloves

Slips through the padded door,

And binds one with three leathern thongs,

That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear

The Burial Office read,

Nor, while the terror of his soul

Tells him he is not dead,

Cross his own coffin, as he moves

Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air

Through a little roof of glass:

He does not pray with lips of clay

For his agony to pass;

Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek

The kiss of Caiaphas.


Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,

In the suit of shabby grey:

His cricket cap was on his head,

And his step seemed light and gay,

But I never saw a man who looked

So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked

With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every wandering cloud that trailed

Its ravelled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do

Those witless men who dare

To try to rear the changeling Hope

In the cave of black Despair:

He only looked upon the sun,

And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,

Nor did he peek or pine,

But he drank the air as though it held

Some healthful anodyne;

With open mouth he drank the sun

As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,

Who tramped the other ring,

Forgot if we ourselves had done

A great or little thing,

And watched with gaze of dull amaze

The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass

With a step so light and gay,

And strange it was to see him look

So wistfully at the day,

And strange it was to think that he

Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves

That in the springtime shoot:

But grim to see is the gallows-tree,

With its adder-bitten root,

And, green or dry, a man must die

Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace

For which all worldlings try:

But who would stand in hempen band

Upon a scaffold high,

And through a murderer's collar take

His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins

When Love and Life are fair:

To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes

Is delicate and rare:

But it is not sweet with nimble feet

To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise

We watched him day by day,

And wondered if each one of us

Would end the self-same way,

For none can tell to what red Hell

His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more

Amongst the Trial Men,

And I knew that he was standing up

In the black dock's dreadful pen,

And that never would I see his face

In God's sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm

We had crossed each other's way:

But we made no sign, we said no word,

We had no word to say;

For we did not meet in the holy night,

But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,

Two outcast men we were:

The world had thrust us from its heart,

And God from out His care:

And the iron gin that waits for Sin

Had caught us in its snare.


In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,

And the dripping wall is high,

So it was there he took the air

Beneath the leaden sky,

And by each side a Warder walked,

For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched

His anguish night and day;

Who watched him when he rose to weep,

And when he crouched to pray;

Who watched him lest himself should rob

Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon

The Regulations Act:

The Doctor said that Death was but

A scientific fact:

And twice a day the Chaplain called,

And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,

And drank his quart of beer:

His soul was resolute, and held

No hiding-place for fear;

He often said that he was glad

The hangman's hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing

No Warder dared to ask:

For he to whom a watcher's doom

Is given as his task,

Must set a lock upon his lips,

And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try

To comfort or console:

And what should Human Pity do

Pent up in Murderers' Hole?

What word of grace in such a place

Could help a brother's soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring

We trod the Fools' Parade!

We did not care: we knew we were

The Devil's Own Brigade:

And shaven head and feet of lead

Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds

With blunt and bleeding nails;

We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,

And cleaned the shining rails:

And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,

And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,

We turned the dusty drill:

We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,

And sweated on the mill:

But in the heart of every man

Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day

Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:

And we forgot the bitter lot

That waits for fool and knave,

Till once, as we tramped in from work,

We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole

Gaped for a living thing;

The very mud cried out for blood

To the thirsty asphalte ring:

And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair

Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent

On Death and Dread and Doom:

The hangman, with his little bag,

Went shuffling through the gloom:

And each man trembled as he crept

Into his numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors

Were full of forms of Fear,

And up and down the iron town

Stole feet we could not hear,

And through the bars that hide the stars

White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams

In a pleasant meadow-land,

The watchers watched him as he slept,

And could not understand

How one could sleep so sweet a sleep

With a hangman close at hand.

But there is no sleep when men must weep

Who never yet have wept:

So we - the fool, the fraud, the knave -

That endless vigil kept,

And through each brain on hands of pain

Another's terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing

To feel another's guilt!

For, right within, the sword of Sin

Pierced to its poisoned hilt,

And as molten lead were the tears we shed

For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt

Crept by each padlocked door,

And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,

Grey figures on the floor,

And wondered why men knelt to pray

Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,

Mad mourners of a corse!

The troubled plumes of midnight were

The plumes upon a hearse:

And bitter wine upon a sponge

Was the savour of Remorse.

The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,

But never came the day:

And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,

In the corners where we lay:

And each evil sprite that walks by night

Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,

Like travellers through a mist:

They mocked the moon in a rigadoon

Of delicate turn and twist,

And with formal pace and loathsome grace

The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,

Slim shadows hand in hand:

About, about, in ghostly rout

They trod a saraband:

And the damned grotesques made arabesques,

Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,

They tripped on pointed tread:

But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,

As their grisly masque they led,

And loud they sang, and long they sang,

For they sang to wake the dead.

'Oho!' they cried, 'The world is wide,

But fettered limbs go lame!

And once, or twice, to throw the dice

Is a gentlemanly game,

But he does not win who plays with Sin

In the secret House of Shame.'

No things of air these antics were,

That frolicked with such glee:

To men whose lives were held in gyves,

And whose feet might not go free,

Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,

Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;

Some wheeled in smirking pairs;

With the mincing step of a demirep

Some sidled up the stairs:

And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,

Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,

But still the night went on:

Through its giant loom the web of gloom

Crept till each thread was spun:

And, as we prayed, we grew afraid

Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round

The weeping prison-wall:

Till like a wheel of turning steel

We felt the minutes crawl:

O moaning wind! what had we done

To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars,

Like a lattice wrought in lead,

Move right across the whitewashed wall

That faced my three-plank bed,

And I knew that somewhere in the world

God's dreadful dawn was red.

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,

At seven all was still,

But the sough and swing of a mighty wing

The prison seemed to fill,

For the Lord of Death with icy breath

Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,

Nor ride a moon-white steed.

Three yards of cord and a sliding board

Are all the gallows' need:

So with rope of shame the Herald came

To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen

Of filthy darkness grope:

We did not dare to breathe a prayer,

Or to give our anguish scope:

Something was dead in each of us,

And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its way,

And will not swerve aside:

It slays the weak, it slays the strong,

It has a deadly stride:

With iron heel it slays the strong,

The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:

Each tongue was thick with thirst:

For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate

That makes a man accursed,

And Fate will use a running noose

For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,

Save to wait for the sign to come:

So, like things of stone in a valley lone,

Quiet we sat and dumb:

But each man's heart beat thick and quick,

Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock

Smote on the shivering air,

And from all the gaol rose up a wail

Of impotent despair,

Like the sound that frightened marshes hear

From some leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things

In the crystal of a dream,

We saw the greasy hempen rope

Hooked to the blackened beam,

And heard the prayer the hangman's snare

Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so

That he gave that bitter cry,

And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,

None knew so well as I:

For he who lives more lives than one

More deaths than one must die.


There is no chapel on the day

On which they hang a man:

The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,

Or his face is far too wan,

Or there is that written in his eyes

Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,

And then they rang the bell,

And the Warders with their jingling keys

Opened each listening cell,

And down the iron stair we tramped,

Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,

But not in wonted way,

For this man's face was white with fear,

And that man's face was grey,

And I never saw sad men who looked

So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked

With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

We prisoners called the sky,

And at every careless cloud that passed

In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all

Who walked with downcast head,

And knew that, had each got his due,

They should have died instead:

He had but killed a thing that lived,

Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time

Wakes a dead soul to pain,

And draws it from its spotted shroud,

And makes it bleed again,

And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,

And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb

With crooked arrows starred,

Silently we went round and round

The slippery asphalte yard;

Silently we went round and round,

And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,

And through each hollow mind

The Memory of dreadful things

Rushed like a dreadful wind,

And Horror stalked before each man,

And Terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,

And kept their herd of brutes,

Their uniforms were spick and span,

And they wore their Sunday suits,

But we knew the work they had been at,

By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,

There was no grave at all:

Only a stretch of mud and sand

By the hideous prison-wall,

And a little heap of burning lime,

That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,

Such as few men can claim:

Deep down below a prison-yard,

Naked for greater shame,

He lies, with fetters on each foot,

Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime

Eats flesh and bone away,

It eats the brittle bone by night,

And the soft flesh by day,

It eats the flesh and bone by turns,

But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow

Or root or seedling there:

For three long years the unblessed spot

Will sterile be and bare,

And look upon the wondering sky

With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint

Each simple seed they sow.

It is not true! God's kindly earth

Is kindlier than men know,

And the red rose would but blow more red,

The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!

Out of his heart a white!

For who can say by what strange way,

Christ brings His will to light,

Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore

Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red

May bloom in prison-air;

The shard, the pebble, and the flint,

Are what they give us there:

For flowers have been known to heal

A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,

Petal by petal, fall

On that stretch of mud and sand that lies

By the hideous prison-wall,

To tell the men who tramp the yard

That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall

Still hems him round and round,

And a spirit may not walk by night

That is with fetters bound,

And a spirit may but weep that lies

In such unholy ground,

He is at peace - this wretched man -

At peace, or will be soon:

There is no thing to make him mad,

Nor does Terror walk at noon,

For the lampless Earth in which he lies

Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:

They did not even toll

A requiem that might have brought

Rest to his startled soul,

But hurriedly they took him out,

And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,

And gave him to the flies:

They mocked the swollen purple throat,

And the stark and staring eyes:

And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud

In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray

By his dishonoured grave:

Nor mark it with that blessed Cross

That Christ for sinners gave,

Because the man was one of those

Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed

To Life's appointed bourne:

And alien tears will fill for him

Pity's long-broken urn,

For his mourners will be outcast men,

And outcasts always mourn


I know not whether Laws be right,

Or whether Laws be wrong;

All that we know who lie in gaol

Is that the wall is strong;

And that each day is like a year,

A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law

That men have made for Man,

Since first Man took his brother's life,

And the sad world began,

But straws the wheat and saves the chaff

With a most evil fan.

This too I know - and wise it were

If each could know the same -

That every prison that men build

Is built with bricks of shame,

And bound with bars lest Christ should see

How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,

And blind the goodly sun:

And they do well to hide their Hell,

For in it things are done

That Son of God nor son of Man

Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds,

Bloom well in prison-air;

It is only what is good in Man

That wastes and withers there:

Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,

And the Warder is Despair.

For they starve the little frightened child

Till it weeps both night and day:

And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,

And gibe the old and grey,

And some grow mad, and all grow bad,

And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell

Is a foul and dark latrine,

And the fetid breath of living Death

Chokes up each grated screen,

And all, but Lust, is turned to dust

In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink

Creeps with a loathsome slime,

And the bitter bread they weigh in scales

Is full of chalk and lime,

And Sleep will not lie down, but walks

Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst

Like asp with adder fight,

We have little care of prison fare,

For what chills and kills outright

Is that every stone one lifts by day

Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,

And twilight in one's cell,

We turn the crank, or tear the rope,

Each in his separate Hell,

And the silence is more awful far

Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near

To speak a gentle word:

And the eye that watches through the door

Is pitiless and hard:

And by all forgot, we rot and rot,

With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life's iron chain

Degraded and alone:

And some men curse, and some men weep,

And some men make no moan:

But God's eternal Laws are kind

And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,

In prison-cell or yard,

Is as that broken box that gave

Its treasure to the Lord,

And filled the unclean leper's house

With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy they whose hearts can break

And peace of pardon win!

How else may man make straight his plan

And cleanse his soul from Sin?

How else but through a broken heart

May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat,

And the stark and staring eyes,

Waits for the holy hands that took

The Thief to Paradise;

And a broken and a contrite heart

The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law

Gave him three weeks of life,

Three little weeks in which to heal

His soul of his soul's strife,

And cleanse from every blot of blood

The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,

The hand that held the steel:

For only blood can wipe out blood,

And only tears can heal:

And the crimson stain that was of Cain

Became Christ's snow-white seal.


In Reading gaol by Reading town

There is a pit of shame,

And in it lies a wretched man

Eaten by teeth of flame,

In a burning winding-sheet he lies,

And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,

In silence let him lie:

No need to waste the foolish tear,

Or heave the windy sigh:

The man had killed the thing he loved,

And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,

By all let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!


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||| Analysis | Critique | Overview Below |||

.: :.

such a powerful poem once it is understood. i believe it has more than one message. one of which is religion and chirsts redemption of sin. but most importantly the ballad is putting forth the message that this man may have killed (a physical death) the person he loved and yes he is in prison for it awaiting the death sentence, but oscar wilde brings out human injustice of how all humans too kill love eventually, even if it is not a physical death...it may be through all these examples he has given like greed, cowardice and toying with peoples emotions...infact oscar wilde has us believe that actual phyisical killing of the thing we love is the kindest as \'the dead so soon grow cold\'(the pain they feel dies off the fastest)
you see oscar wilde actually believes love always dies(except that of Gods love to all of us)...he says we are either the ones killing love or the ones who suffer from being killed by the ones we love...
well fact is that wilde is asking : if we all kill...why must this man who has killed too be convicted so shamefully of his actions?....he will die...yet not all of us die like this!...you get me?
quote \'\'the man had killed the thing he loved, so he had to die....for each man kills the thing he loves yet each man does not die\'\'
powerful poem\\

| Posted on 2011-10-31 | by a guest

.: :.

I need an analysis like alliteration uses or metaphors and their effects please! Thanx ;)

| Posted on 2011-04-15 | by a guest

.: :.

Before you go deeper, as some of the commenters here have done, I think it\'s necessary to keep the surface meaning of the whole poem in mind as context. And that surface meaning is an attack--or perhaps more of an anguished reflection--on a society that claims to uphold Christian virtues, yet punishes some men harshly and denies them even the benefit of religion, although all have sinned and all have fallen short of the glory of God. That\'s how I take the \"each man kills the thing he loves\" stanzas: certainly they can be taken on their own and analyzed separately, but they lose their original power outside the context of the poem, because within the poem they are a clear statement: \"this man was hanged, placed beyond the pale of society, and denied even a cross or a decent burial, because he killed the woman he loved; but every one of us has committed a similar murder in his deeds or in his heart, and not all of us are cast out for it.\"
The author \"knows not whether laws be right or whether laws be wrong,\" but perhaps the ultimate message to take from this poem is that human laws cannot work in the same way as divine laws. Wilde isn\'t offering up a judgement or any ideas on how society should be ordered, although clearly he has a low opinion of the prison system\'s efficacy; he is merely pointing out that the self-righteousness of human justice is moot in God\'s eyes, as everyone needs redemption for something, and that the condemnations of human justice are equally meaningless from a divine perspective, as everyone--even and especially the most grievous of sinners--has a shot at redemption.

| Posted on 2011-01-03 | by a guest

.: :.

I think that Wilde is judging the fact that a hung man would make no difference to the one he loves. This statement is justified by the words \" He\'s got to swing\". There is no love in the world of death and no death in the world of love.

| Posted on 2010-10-24 | by a guest

.: :.

It is clear to me (as Jungian shrink) that Wilde is talking about the unconscious self/Self - the natural mind of the Buddhists- which we of course deeply love but because of our polarising egotism, we project negatively or positively,as the case may be.
Greg White

| Posted on 2010-01-26 | by a guest

.: :.

I think what Wilde is referring to in general here is the lack of love all people show to those they really love I think when he says killing the one you love(an initially shocking and rather controversial statement to make) I think he is just talking about the lack of respect for love that human beings used to be subject to in those times (and even moreso in these times) here takes a more cynical view on love and life in general but if you read further you begin to realise that he might actually be trying to cocentrate more on the fact that one has to give up a certain degree of freedom or as Wilde might explain it 'death' or 'life' so and here I travel into uncertainty for i am not sure as to wether he wants to be an optimist and encourage such things or a pessimist and try and discourage them. But with these inked tones i believe he is trying to dissuade the audience or just scorn at them and above all warn them and advise about the braver wayz of getting involced with such affairs then again I'm only 13 so nothing I said can be taken seriously.

| Posted on 2009-08-09 | by a guest

.: :.

I think , Oscar Wild is critizising the society of his time. The image of the prison is a methaphor of his situation, of his society. he lives in a society with judges, him and finally condemned him just for beign differenr from his time. I also Think that this can be applied to our time, we also judge people who is different, who does not follow the current rules. So, in that way, the prison could symbolize the society which emprisoned us, which imprisons does who do not follow the prescripted rules.

| Posted on 2009-07-30 | by a guest

.: An Alternative Reading :.

This is poem about masculine desire, specifically that of the obsessional neurotic. If we look to psychoanalysis we are reminded that the obsessional is preoccupied with the question of his mortality, and defines love according to his high ideals. His incorporation of the Other causes him to simultaneously obliterates her.

| Posted on 2008-05-15 | by a guest

.: :.

It is part of human nature and the society in which we live to cherish those things that are pure, innocent and beautiful. We love those things. Yet look at how many people willfully smash the things in their life that are sacred and good. Self-sabotage. I believe Oscar is saying that at some point, in every man's (human) life they destroy/kill the very thing which they need/yearn for - innocence, purity, beauty - love. Some do so out of lust, out of societal gain, out of cowardice, and sometimes, but rarely, out of dignity.

They do this but they themselves do not die. They're only left with their remorse, which is probably worse.

| Posted on 2007-08-23 | by a guest

.: An opposing view... :.

I have read through this poem several times now and am fascinated by it. I take a different view on it's meaning than weird eel. I will assume in this analyses that the love Wilde refers to over and over again is refering to a love between two people. Of this I am not entirely convinced, however. I think that it could also be refering to the love between God and man, or to ones own self.

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,"

Everyone? This SHOULD be quite shocking. Afterall, not everyone kills the thing he loves, do they? According to Wilde, yes they do.

"Some do it with a bitter look,"

This could very easily refer to simply not showing love to the thing you love. How many couples do you know with one bitter party? One part of the couple (typically the gruff old man) who simply does not approve or support anything the other part does? A look can kill.

"Some with a flattering word,"

In my opinion, this is refering to 'players'. Those who trick someone into loving them. The played party will often end up falling in love with the player, but if the player does not love the played, than the love is destined to fail and the played destined to die.

"The coward does it with a kiss,"

This one seems obvious. You can kill the thing you love by kissing, or showing affection to, another thing. This is not necesarily the meaning, however. The line does not distinguish between who is being kissed. It could be the thing you love. One possible meaning could be Judas Iscariot, who betrayed his love(Jesus) with a kiss. Another possibility would be smothering the thing you love too early on with physical affection, essentially killing any chance of real love developing (I have experienced this one!).

"The brave man with a sword!”

This has been taken by some to mean that it is better to kill the one you love than to put them through the pain of killing the love with one of items above. I do not agree with this interpretation. I think it reads more along the lines of; "Some people sabatoge love, they kill it inadvertantly and in a slow and painful manor. But the better man breaks love off in one swift motion." The difference between sabatoging a relationship, thus hurting your partner, and breaking up with someone is huge. I think that the basic idea here is that it is better to break something off yourself than to let your actions do it. Another meaning, if the previous line is meant in a biblical context, would be Peter using a sword to try and save Jesus directly after Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss. The use of the sword went directly against Jesus' teachings, and thus could be seen as killing in some manor. Peter was brave, and although he had a brief lapse of cowardice shortly after this incident, he died for his love, hung on a cross upside down (according to scholars of the time and popular belief). Judas, on the other hand, hung himself directly after the events.

It is important to continue on to the next stanza, as it directly relates, but I am out of time. I hope this helps someone! Before I leave, I must at least mention what I believe to be the most important line of the poem:

"The man who lives more lives than one,
more deaths than one must die."

I believe that this line sums up what Wilde felt of his life. He had lived two lives, one married to a women, and one in love with a man. He seperated the lives, and so had to die to both of them. First to his family, and second to his lover. Likewise, he had to die first to his audience (literary death), and second to himself (physical death).

I am just a student at Oregon State, so this is not an expert opinion, but I believe it is a relatively informed one. Have a great day, and if anyone cares to discuss this furthuer, you can email me at colinwoekel@hotmail.com

| Posted on 2005-05-09 | by Approved Guest

.: part one :.

This is an interpretation of part one only.

This poem, as I have been informed, is one the true writing Oscar Wilde has done himself. You see, the other poems have been ripped off to a certain degree and have not really been his original thought. This poem, however, was written while Wilde was imprisoned for being homosexual (and perhaps more than that?).

“The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.”
He was talking about the man who killed his wife and therefore must be put to death. An eye for an eye, in the eyes of Wilde’s public back then.

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!”
I can interpret this in two ways:
1) he is talking about love here saying that man will willingly give up his initial motives or sacrifice in a manner where he loses a bit of free will – through wars, under commands of chiefs or other authority figures, or through mind and thoughts by replacing every existing thought with their love (their mind would be the thing they loved most until this point).
2) or he is talking about free will in a manner of choice of personal values: indirectly caused by propriety or deference to a higher-up or authority figure, the person will diverge their original thoughts in order to please those around them. Conformity, as it were, has a strict hold over us in society and bids us to follow the code of civil conduct or living.

“He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.”
Wilde is referring to the “free” man, on the outskirts of the prison, who indeed are as condemned as the condemned inside those prison walls. He is comparing how people’s lives are judged inside the walls by other cellmates. All things relative, the men outside are imprisoned by society and the citizenship or fellowship of their town or country.
No man is truly free because, before every action, there will always be a brief judgmental thought about how others will view them afterwards.

The self-conscious world Wilde is talking about here isn’t so conscious of their own imprisonment.

| Posted on 2005-03-11 | by the weird eel

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