Taedium Vitae — Oscar Wilde

To stab my youth with des­pe­rate knives, to wear
This pal­try age’s gau­dy live­ry,
To let each base hand filch my trea­su­ry,
To mesh my soul within a woman’s hair,
And be mere Fortune’s lackeyed groom,–I swear
I love it not! these things are less to me
Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,
Less than the thist­le­down of sum­mer air
Which hath no seed: bet­ter to stand aloof
Far from these slan­de­rous fools who mock my life
Kno­wing me not, bet­ter the low­liest roof
Fit for the mea­nest hind to sojourn in,
Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
Where my white soul first kis­sed the mouth of sin.