"To Sleep" by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Ah, Sleep, to me thou com'st not in the guise
Of one who brings good gifts to weary men,
Balm for bruised hearts and fancies alien
To unkind truth, and drying for sad eyes.
I dread the summons to that fierce assize
Of all my foes and woes, that waits me when
Thou mak'st my soul the unwilling denizen
Of thy dim troubled house where unrest lies.

My soul is sick with dreaming, let it rest.
False Sleep, thou hast conspired with Wakefulness,
I will not praise thee, I too long beguiled
With idle tales. Where is thy soothing breast ?
Thy peace, thy poppies, thy forgetfulness ?
Where is thy lap for me so tired a child ?

“To Shakespeare” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Most tuneful singer, lover tenderest,

Most sad, most piteous, and most musical,

Thine is the shrine more pilgrim-worn than all

The shrines of singers; high above the rest

Thy trumpet sounds most loud, most manifest.

Yet better were it if a lonely call

Of woodland birds, a song, a madrigal,

Were all the jetsam of thy sea's unrest.

For now thy praises have become too loud

On vulgar lips, and every yelping cur

Yaps thee a paean ; the whiles little men,

Not tall enough to worship in a crowd,

Spit their small wits at thee. Ah ! better then

The broken shrine, the lonely worshipper.

“To L” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

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 delight

With memories ? Oh ! I had clean made end

Of all that time, I had made haste to send

My soul into red places, and to light

A torch of pleasure to burn up my night.

What I have woven hast thou come to rend ?

In silent acres of forgetful flowers,

Crowned as of old with happy daffodils,

Long time my wounded soul has been a-straying,

Alas! it has chanced now on sombre hours

Of hard remembrances and sad delaying,

Leaving green valleys for the bitter hills

“The Travelling Companion” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Into the silence of the empty night

I 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,

Out of the leaden East like smoke came he.

I laughed and said, ' The night is past and done ' ;

But sorrow came and led me back to thee.

I turned my face towards the rising moon,

Out of the south she came most sweet to see,

She smiled upon my eyes that loathed the noon ;

But sorrow came and led me back to thee.

I bent my eyes upon the summer land,

And all the painted fields were ripe for me,

And every flower nodded to my hand ;

But Sorrow came and led me back to thee.

O Love ! O Sorrow ! O desired Despair !

I turn my feet towards the boundless sea,

Into the dark I go and heed not where,

So that I come again at last to thee.

“The Green River” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

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 sovereignty of voiceless song,

And all the unravished silences belong

To some sweet singer lost or unrevealed.

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.

"The Garden Of Death" by Lord Alfred Douglas

There is an isle in an unfurrowed sea
That I wot of, whereon the whole year round
The apple-blossoms and the rosebuds be
In early blooming ; and a many sound
Of ten-stringed lute, and most mellifluous breath
Of silver flute, and mellow half-heard horn,
Making unmeasured music. Thither Death
Coming like Love, takes all things in the morn
Of tenderest life, and being a delicate god,
In his own garden takes each delicate thing
Unstained, unmellowed, immature, untrod,
Tremulous betwixt the summer and the spring :
The rosebud ere it come to be a rose,
The blossom ere it win to be a fruit,
The virginal snowdrop, and the dove that knows
Only one dove for lover ; all the loot
Of young soft things, and all the harvesting
Of unripe flowers. Never comes the moon
To matron fulness, here no child-bearing
Vexes desire, and the sun knows no noon.
But all the happy dwellers of that place
Are reckless children gotten on Delight
By Beauty that is thrall to Death ; no grace,
No natural sweet they lack, a chrysolite
Of perfect beauty each. No wisdom comes
To mar their early folly, no false laws
Man-made for man, no mouthing prudence numbs
Their green unthought, or gives their licence pause ;
Young animals, young flowers, they live and grow,
And die before their sweet emblossomed breath
Has learnt to sigh save like a lover's. Oh !
How sweet is Youth, how delicate is Death !

"The Dead Poet" by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

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.

"The City Of The Soul: II" by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

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,
And oh! my prince, lift up thy countenance,
For there be thoughts like roses that entrance
More than the languors of soft lute-playing.

Think how the hidden things that poets see
In amber eves or mornings crystalline,
Hide in the soul their constant quenchless light,
Till, called by some celestial alchemy,
Out of forgotten depths, they rise and shine
Like buried treasure on Midsummer night.

"Vae Victis!" by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Here in this isle
The summer still lingers,
And Autumn's brown fingers
So busy the while
With the leaves in the north;
Are scarcely put forth
In this land where the sun still glows like an ember,.
In mid-November.

In England it's cold,
And the yellow and red
Of October have fled ;
And the sun is wet gold
Like an emperor weeping,
When Death goes a-reaping
All through his empire, merciless comer
The dead things of summer.

The sky has cried so
That the earth is all sodden,
With dead leaves in-trodden,
And the trees to and fro
Wave their arms in the air
In despair, in despair :
They are thinking of all the hot days that are over,
And the cows in the clover.

Here the roses are out,
And the sun at high noon
Makes the birds faint and swoon.
But the cricket's about
With his song, and the hum
Of the bees as they come
To feast at the honey-board laden and groaning,
Makes musical droning.

But vainly, alas !
Do I hide in the south,
Kiss close with my mouth
Red flowers, green grass,
For Autumn has found me
And thrown her arms around me.
She has breathed on my lips and I wander apart,
Dead leaves in my heart.

"Harmonic Du Soir" by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Voici venir le temps

Now is the hour when, swinging in the breeze,
Each flower, like a censer, sheds its sweet.
The air is full of scents and melodies,
O languorous waltz ! O swoon of dancing feet!

Each flower, like a censer, sheds its sweet,
The violins are like sad souls that cry,
O languorous waltz ! O swoon of dancing feet!
A shrine of Death and Beauty is the sky.

The violins are like sad souls that cry,
Poor souls that hate the vast. black night of Death ;
A shrine of Death and Beauty is the sky.
Drowned in red blood, the Sun gives up his breath.

This soul that hates the vast black night of Death
Takes all the luminous past back tenderly,
Drowned in red blood, the Sun gives up his breath.
Thine image like a monstrance shines in me.

“The Ballad Of Saint Vitus” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Vitus came tripping over the grass

When all the leaves in the trees were green,

Through the green meadows he did pass

On the day he was full seventeen.

The lark was singing up over his head,

As he went by so lithe and fleet,

And the flowers danced in white and red

At the treading of his nimble feet.

His neck was as brown as the brown earth is

When first the young brown plough-boys delve it,

And his lips were as red as mulberries

And his eyes were like the soft black velvet.

His silk brown hair was touched with bronze,

And his brown cheeks had the tender hue

That like a dress the brown earth dons

When the pink carnations bloom anew.

He was slim as the reeds that sway all along

The banks of the lake, and as straight as a rush,

And as he passed he sang a song,

And his voice was as sweet as the voice of a thrush,

He sang of the Gardens of Paradise,

And the light of God that never grows dim,

And the cherubim with their radiant eyes,

And the rainbow wings of the Seraphim.

And the host as countless as all days,

That worships there, and ceases not,

Singing and praising God always,

With lute and flute and angelot.

And the blessed light of Mary's face

As she sits among these pleasant sounds,

And Christ that is the Prince of Grace,

And the five red flowers that be His wounds.

And so he went till he came to the doors

Of the ivory house of his father the King,

And all through the golden corridors,

As he passed along, he ceased to sing.

But a pagan priest had seen him pass,

And heard his voice as he went along

Through the fields of the bending grass, -

And he heard the words of the holy song.

And he sought the King where he sat on his throne,

And the tears of wrath were in his eyes,

And he said, ' O Sire, be it known

That thy son singeth in this wise ;

'Of the blessed light of Mary's face

As she sits amidst sweet pleasant sounds,

And how that Christ is the Prince of Grace,

And hath five flowers that be His wounds.'

And when the King had heard this thing,

His brow grew black as a winter night,

And he bade the pages seek and bring

Straightway the prince before his sight.

And Vitus came before the King,

And the King cried out, ' I pray thee, son,

Sing now the song that thou didst sing

When thou cam'st through the fields anon.'

And the face of the prince grew white as milk,

And he answered nought, but under the band

That held his doublet of purple silk

Round his slight waist, he thrust his hand.

And the King picked up a spear, and cried,

' What hast thou there ? by the waters of Styx,

Speak or I strike,' and the boy replied,

' Sweet Sire, it is a crucifix.' .

And the King grew black with rage and grief,

And for a full moment he spake no word.

And the spear in his right hand shook like a leaf,

And the vein on his brow was a tight blue cord.

Then he laughed and said, in bitter scorn,

' Take me this Christian fool from my sight,

Lock him in the turret till the morn,

And let him dance alone to-night.

'He shall sit in the dark while the courtly ball

All the gay night sweeps up and down

On the polished floor of the golden hall,

And thus shall he win his martyr's crown.'

Thus spake the King, and the courtiers smiled,

And Vitus hung his head for shame ;

And he thought, ' I am punished like a child,

That would have died for Christ's dear Name.'

And so 'twas done, and on that night,

While silk and sword, with fan and flower,

Danced in the hall in the golden light,

Prince Vitus sat in the lone dark tower.

But the King bethought him, and was moved,

Ere the short summer night was done,

And his heart's blood yearned for the son he loved,

His dainty prince, his only son.

And all alone he climbed the stair,

With the tired feet of a sceptred King,

And came to the door, and lo ! he was 'ware

Of the sound of flute and lute-playing.

And as the King stood there amazed,

The iron door flew open wide,

And the King fell down on his knees as he gazed

At the wondrous thing he saw inside.

For the room was filled with a soft sweet light

Of ambergris and apricot,

And round the walls were angels bright,

With lute and flute and angelot.

On lute and angelot they played,

With their gold heads bowed upon the strings,

And the soft wind that the slim flutes made,

Stirred in the feathers of their wings.

And in the midst serene and sweet

With God's light on his countenance

Was Vitus, with his gold shod feet,

Dancing in a courtly dance.

And round him were archangels four,

Michael, who guards God's citadel,

Raphael, whom children still implore,

And Gabriel and Uriel.

Thus long ago was Christ's behest,

And the saving grace that His red wounds be,

Unto this king made manifest,

And all his land of Sicily.

God sits within the highest Heaven,

His mercy neither tires nor faints,

All good gifts that may be given,

He gives unto His holy Saints.

This was the joy that Vitus gat;

To dance with Angels knee by knee,

Before he came to man's estate :

God send us all such Company.

Amen.

“Spring” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Wake up again, sad heart, wake up again !

(I heard the birds this morning singing sweet.)

Wake up again ! The sky was crystal clear,

And washed quite clean with rain ;

And tar below my heart stirred with the year,

Stirred with the year and sighed. O pallid feet

Move now at last, O heart that sleeps with pain

Rise up and hear

The voices in the valleys, run to meet

The songs and shadows. O wake up again !

Put out green leaves, dead tree, put out green leaves t

(Last night the moon was soft and kissed the air.)

Put out green leaves ! The moon was in the skies,

All night she wakes and weaves.

The dew was on the grass like fairies' eyes,

Like fairies' eyes. O trees so black and bare,

Remember all the fruits, the full gold sheaves;

For nothing dies,

The songs that are, are silences that were,

Summer was Winter. O put but green leaves!

Break through the earth, pale flower, break through the earth !

(All day the lark has sung a madrigal.)

Break through the earth that lies not lightly yet

And waits thy patient birth,

Waits for the jonquil and the violet,

The violet. Full soon the heavy pall

Will be a bed, and in the noon of mirth

Some rivulet

Will bubble in my wilderness, some call

Will touch my silence. O break through the earth.

“Sonnet on the Sonnet” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

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 form, to wrestle and to rage,

Till at the last upon the conquered page

The shadows of created Beauty fall.

This is the sonnet, this is all delight

Of every flower that blows in every Spring,

And all desire of every desert place;

This is the joy that fills a cloudy night

When bursting from her misty following,

A perfect moon wins to an empty space.

“Rejected” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Alas ! I have lost my God,

My beautiful God Apollo.

Wherever his footsteps trod

My feet were wont to follow.

But Oh ! it fell out one day

My soul was so heavy with weeping,

That I laid me down by the way ;

And he left me while I was sleeping.

And my soul awoke in the night,

And I bowed my ear for his fluting,

And I heard but the breath of the flight

Of wings and the night-birds hooting.

And night drank all her cup,

And I went to the shrine in the hollow,

And the voice of my cry went up :

' Apollo ! Apollo ! Apollo ! '

But he never came to the gate,

And the sun was hid in a mist,

And there came one walking late,

And I knew it was Christ,

He took my soul and bound it

With cords of iron wire,

Seven times round He wound it

With the cords of my desire.

The cords of my desire,

While my desire slept, ,

Were seven bands of wire

To bind my soul that wept.

And He hid my soul at last

In a place of stones and (ears,

Where the hours like days went past

And the days went by like years.

And after many days

That which had slept awoke,

And desire burnt in a blaze,

And my soul went up in the smoke.

And we crept away from the place

And would not look behind,

And the angel that hides his face

Was crouched on the neck of the wind.

And I went to the shrine in the hollow

Where the lutes and the flutes were playing,

And cried : ' I am come, Apollo,

Back to thy shrine, from my straying.'

But he would have none of my soul

That was stained with blood and with tears,

That had lain in the earth like a mole,

In the place of great stones and fears.

And now I am lost in the mist

Of the things that can never be,

For I will have none of Christ

And Apollo will none of me.