" I dreamed of him last night, I saw his face
All radiant and unshadowed of distress,
And as of 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 out 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."
Alfred Douglas
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
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The sadness of recognition about all the words we leave behind...what if? continues to be the imponderable question for which there never will be a true and satisfying answer. So lets make sure we say what we must while we still have the voice, both in sound and spirit, that we may never have to wake up to find what is important dead.
ReplyDeleteThis is both utterly sad and yet extraordinarily beautiful. Thank you, my dear.
I read a bit due to this post about alfred douglas. What a tragic and intense life he lead. I like especially "trace under the common things the hidden grace, and conjure wonder out of emptiness."
ReplyDeleteI also looked up the violet hour, found a restaurant, a play, and Bernard DeVoto. You do know some unusual literary folks, Robin. I dont think I've ever heard of DeVoto but the quote you give is quite lovely. But his book, The Hour, is about drinking !!!! Although i am sure also much more. I got a chuckle, as more or less a non-drinker. Thanks for the introduction to these two.
Such a sad and beautiful piece.
ReplyDeletei love you, dear friend.
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