LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS To Olive
I HAVE been profligate of happiness And reckless of the world's hostility, The blessed part has not been given to me Gladly to suffer fools, 1 do confess I have enticed and merited distress,
By this, that I have never bow'd the knee Before the shrine of wise Hypocrisy, Nor worn self-righteous anger like a dress.
Yet write you this, sweet one, when I am dead. 'Love like a lamp sway'd over all his days
And all his life was like a lamp-lit chamber, Where is no nook, no chink unvisited By the soft affluence of golden rays,
And all the room is bathed in liquid amber.'
Green River
I KNOW a green grass path that leaves the field, And like a running river, winds along Into a leafy wood where is no throng Of birds at noon-day, and no soft throats yield Their music to the moon. The place is scal'd, An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song, And all the unravish'd silences belong To some sweet singer lost or unreveal'd.
So is my soul become a silent place. Oh may I wake from this uneasy night To find a voice of music manifold. Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face,
Or Love that swoons on sleep, or else delight
That is as wide-eyed as a marigold.
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