I wrote to his memory one of my best sonnets, which I here reproduce:—
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.
Oscar Wilde and Myself
·
Alfred Douglas
