The Green River
by 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 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 some 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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