death by paper cut











{September 14, 2006}   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 thought like murdered singing birds.

and so i woke and knew that he was dead.

– Alfred Douglas

Paris 1901

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