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Poem by Alfred Bruce Douglas


The Dead Poet


I 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.



Alfred Bruce Douglas


Alfred Bruce Douglas's other poems:
  1. To L Ч
  2. Not All the Singers of a Thousand Years
  3. Rejected
  4. The Garden of Death
  5. To Shakespeare


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