See, Yeats is one of my earliest and most enduring favorite poets: I imprinted on him with "The Second Coming" in late high school, and he's been in the pantheon ever since. (I picked up Robinson Jeffers and T.S. Eliot right around the same time.) Most of what I love about Wilde is his prose work; fiction, drama, essays. But there are about three poems of Oscar Wilde's that I do love, and this is one of them; even if this particular poem reminds me rather more of Swinburne than Wilde might have wished.