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.