Alfred Douglas (1870–1945)

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 seal’d,

An unclaim’d 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.