THE DEAD POET


by: Alfred Douglas (1870-1945)


    • DREAMED of him last night, I
      saw his face
      All radiant and unshadowed of distress,
      And as of old, in music measureless,
      I heard his golden voice and marked him trace
      Under the common thing the hidden grace,
      And conjure wonder out of emptiness,
      Till mean things put on beauty like a dress
      And all the world was an enchanted place.

      And then methought outside a fast locked gate
      I mourned the loss of unrecorded words,
      Forgotten tales and mysteries half said,
      Wonders that might have been articulate,
      And voiceless thoughts like murdered singing birds.
      And so I woke and knew that he was dead.