I thought that this poem was about a book. But books don’t go across bridges (not without being carried) or dwarf their passersby. So, I went with the original dictionary definition of the word. There’s not much to say about Oscar Wilde’s poems; they speak for themselves (and I’d much rather read one than talk about it).
Symphony in Yellow
by Oscar Wilde
An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
A small note: I do love how the ordinary is transformed (transcends) into the luxurious and exotic just by choosing the right adjectives (yellow, silken, Temple, pale green) and nouns (jade, butterfly, midge) which by themselves are also rather pale.