Lord Alfred Douglas

Where level lawns sweep through the stately trees, and the great peacocks walk like painted kings...

In the salt terror of a stormy sea there are high altitudes the mind forgets... But we being gods will never bend the knee, though sad moons shadow every sun that sets...

Thou sombre lady of down-bended head, weary lashes drooping to the cheek, with sweet sad fold of lips uncomforted and listless hands more tired with strife than meek

O rare sweet hour ! O cup of golden wine !

the air is full of soft imaginings

Why dost thou wrong me?

For my brothers and sisters were black as the gate...whereby I shall pass to-morrow, but I was white and delicate and born to splendour and to sorrow.