I dreamed of him last night, I saw his face <br />All radiant and unshadowed of distress, <br />And as of old, in music measureless, <br />I heard his golden voice and marked him trace <br />Under the common thing the hidden grace, <br />And conjure wonder out of emptiness, <br />Till mean things put on beauty like a dress <br />And all the world was an enchanted place. <br /> <br />And then methought outside a fast locked gate <br />I mourned the loss of unrecorded words, <br />Forgotten tales and mysteries half said, <br />Wonders that might have been articulate, <br />And voiceless thoughts like murdered singing birds. <br />And so I woke and knew that he was dead.<br /><br />Lord Alfred Douglas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dead-poet/
