The work was done.

The spirit-moulders of immortal souls

Wiped from their brows the sweat and washed their hands,

And standing by, in full contentment gazed

Upon their wondrous work.

A masterpiece! it was a masterpiece!

A genius to be born unto the world,

One more to swell that galaxy of stars

That makes the cosmic bosom swell with pride.

Another inextinguishable star

To scintillate throughout eternity.

The angels stood, heads bowed in reverence

Before what was to be the poet Wilde,

And as they stood, these proud progenitors,

In blissful contemplation of their child,

There fell upon them, as a shadow cast

By purple clouds upon a limpid lake,

A sadness that no human voice could tell.

Forebodings of the suffering of Wilde

Depressed them so that, kneeling down, they wept.

They wept over the dire humiliation

Awaiting him who is the pride of God,

And over man’s stupidity they wept—

The colossal stupidity of man.