Lord Alfred Douglas

Lord Alfred Douglas

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Lord Alfred Bruce Douglas (22 October 1870 – 20 March 1945) was a British poet and journalist best known as the lover of Oscar Wilde.
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Jonquil And Fleur-de-lys

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Jonquil was a shepherd lad,
White he was as the curded cream,
Hair like the buttercups he had,
And wet green eyes like a full chalk
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The Garden Of Death

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There is an isle in an unfurrowed
That I wot of, whereon the whole year
The apple-blossoms and the rosebuds
In early blooming ; and a many
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To Sleep

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Ah,
Sleep, to me thou com'st not in the
Of one who brings good gifts to weary men,
Balm for bruised hearts and fancies
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Night Coming Into A Garden

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Roses red and white,
Every rose is hanging her head,
Silently comes the lady Night,
Only the flowers can hear her tread
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Plainte Eternelle

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The sun sinks down, the tremulous daylight dies
(Down their long shafts the weary sunbeams glide
)The white-winged ships drift with the falling tide,
Come back, my love, with pity in your eyes
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To L —

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Thou that wast once my loved and loving friend,
A friend no more,
I had forgot thee quite,
Why hast thou come to trouble my
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Le Balcon

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Mere des souvenirs, mattresses des
Mother of Memories
O mistress-queen
Oh
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The Ballad Of Saint Vitus

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Vitus came tripping over the
When all the leaves in the trees were green,
Through the green meadows he did
On the day he was full seventeen
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The Green River

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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 sealed,
An unclaimed so...
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Sonnet On The Sonnet

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To see the moment holds a madrigal,
To find some cloistered place, some hermitage For free devices, some deliberate cage Wherein to keep wild thoughts like birds in thrall;
To eat sweet honey and to taste black gall,
To fight with f...
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The Travelling Companion

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Into the silence of the empty nightI went, and took my scorned heart with me,
And all the thousand eyes of heaven were bright;
But Sorrow came and led me back to thee
I turned my weary eyes towards the sun,
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Ennui

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Alas
and oh that Spring should come
Upon the soft wings of desired days,
And bring with her no anodyne to pain,
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The Dead Poet

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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,
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The City Of The Soul II

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What shall we do, my soul, to please the King
Seeing he hath no pleasure in the dance,
And hath condemned the honeyed utterance Of silver flutes and mouths made round to sing
Along the wall red roses climb and cling,
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Night Coming Out Of A Garden

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Through the still air of
Suddenly comes, alone and shrill,
Like the far-off voice of the distant light,
The single piping
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Perkin Warbeck

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At Turney in Flanders I was
Fore-doomed to splendour and sorrow,
For I was a king when they cut the corn,
And they strangle me
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