The Dead Poet

By Lord Alfred Douglas

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.

Poetul cel mort

L-am visat noaptea trecuta, cand chipul i-am zarit,
Stralucitor si neintunetcat de framantare,
Si ca odinioara, de-o nemasurata-ncantare,
I-am auzit cristalul vocii, iar pe-ntuneric l-am ghicit
Umbland in lucrul ne’nsemnat dupa farmecul pitit
Si din neant chemand s-apara minunea cea mai mare
Pan’ce relele-si iau poadaba frumusetii la purtare
Si-n locu-ntregii lumi deodata un loc magic s-a ivit.

Apoi ingandurat in fata unei porti intepenite
Deplans-am irosirea neretinutelor cuvinte,
Povesti uitate si taine pe jumatate rostite,
Minunilor acelora ce-ar fi putut fi zise,
Ca pasari ucise-n cantec – niste ganduri amutite.
Asa din somn trezit, stiut-am ca murise.
 

Translated by Veronica Bala