The Dead Poet

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.