Thursday, February 10, 2011


A little poem by Oscar Wild

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard.
Some do it with a bitter hook,
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 hands of gold.
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow old.

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 

- Oscar Wilde

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