"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 he was dead." The Dead Poet, 1901.


(Alfred Bruce Douglas, Marchese di Queensberry, soprannominato "Bosie", poeta uraniano e rovina di Oscar Wilde; Worcestershire, 22 ottobre 1870 – Lancing, 20 marzo 1945)