Lord Alfred Douglas
Lord Alfred Douglas is remembered today for his tumultuous association with Oscar Wilde and as a minor poet.
Douglas, universally known as Bosie, was born October 22, 1870, the third son of John Sholto Douglas, ninth Marquess of Queensberry, and Sibyl, née Montgomery.
After a boyhood during which his parents separated, Douglas went up from Winchester to Magdalen College, Oxford, in 1889. He met Oscar Wilde through a mutual friend in early summer, 1891, and they became lovers the following spring. Douglas's beauty was "like a narcissus--white and gold," as Wilde told Robert Ross.
Most of Douglas's homoerotic poetry was written between 1893 and 1896 and ... more »
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Lord Alfred Douglas Poems
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
The Green River
I know a green grass path that leaves the field, And like a running river, winds along Into a leafy wood where is no throng Of birds at noon-day, and no soft throats yield
The City of the Soul: II
What shall we do, my soul, to please the King? Seeing he hath no pleasure in the dance, And hath condemned the honeyed utterance Of silver flutes and mouths made round to sing.
I have been through the woods to-day And the leaves were falling, Summer had crept away, And the birds were not calling.
Impression de Nuit ( London )
See what a mass of gems the city wears Upon her broad live bosom! row on row Rubies and emeralds and amethysts glow. See! that huge circle like a necklace, stares
Not all the singers of a thousand years
Not all the singers of a thousand years Can open English prisons. No. Though hell Opened for Tracian Orpheus, now the spell Of song and art is powerless as the tears
Alas! and oh that Spring should come again Upon the soft wings of desired days, And bring with her no anodyne to pain,
Wake up again, sad heart, wake up again ! (I heard the birds this morning singing sweet.)
Often the western wind has sung to me, There have been voices in the streams and meres, And pitiful trees have told me, God, of Thee :
In Memoriam : Francis Archibald Douglas
Dear friend, dear brother, I have owed you this Since many days, the tribute of a song. Shall I cheat you who never did a wrong
Mere des souvenirs, mattresses des mattresses Mother of Memories! O mistress-queen ! Oh ! all my joy and all my duty thou !
Sonnet on the Sonnet
To see the moment holds a madrigal, To find some cloistered place, some hermitage For free devices, some deliberate cage Wherein to keep wild thoughts like birds in thrall;
Most tuneful singer, lover tenderest, Most sad, most piteous, and most musical, Thine is the shrine more pilgrim-worn than all
A Winter Sunset
The frosty sky, like a furnace burning, The keen air, crisp and cold, And a sunset that splashes the clouds with gold
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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 ...