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 birds
and so I woke and knew that he was dead



Small prize for guessing who wrote this, and about whom. Well, very
small prize actually, co's it's pretty obvious. You can date the poem
by the style. The rest is, well, history. The only slight surprise is
that the much vilified author seems to have had something good in him.
Perhaps we shouldn't really be surprised: there is some good in most of us,
and in this poem there is real love.

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