“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...

Not a person who finds appeal in a poems often. But this, this is something else. This is the song of desolation of a man condemned.
This is what I listened to immediately after I finished reading it
Read by Rupert Everett, read to the prisoners of the Reading Prison, where Wilde was incarcerated and the very place he wrote this poem.