The Dead Poet

The Dead poet---lord alfred douglas I dreamed of him last night,I saw his face All radiant and unshadowed of distress, And as of old, in music measureless, Heard his golden voice and marked him trace Under the common thing the hidden grace, a And conjure wonder out of emptiness, And all the world was an enchanted place. And then methought outside a locked gate I mourned the loss of unrecord words, Forgotten tales and mysteries half said, wonders that might have been articulate, And so I woke and knew that he was dead.