Thy Romanic Love

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"He is quite like a narcissus - so white and gold...
he lies like a hyacinth on the sofa and I worship him."

- Oscar Wilde, describing Bosie



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Known to most as the friend of Oscar Wilde, Lord Alfred Bruce Douglas or "Bosie" as he preferred to be called (a nickname gained in childhood), was an accomplished poet, writer, and editor. Some of the most well-known people of his day had the highest praise for his work. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, compiler of The Oxford Book of English Verse, believed that Douglas wrote the finest sonnets of his time, sonnets that few other English poets had ever equalled. Frank Harris also gave him extravagant praise as a sonneteer, comparing him with Shakespeare; and George Bernard Shaw compared him with Shelley.
(from http://www.geocities.com/starparty1/bosie/)



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1870

Lord Alfred Bruce Douglas "Bosie" is born on October 22nd

1891

Bosie is formally introduced to Oscar Wilde by Lionel Johnson. Oscar becomes so enamored of Bosie he writes a sonnet to him, The New Remorse

1892

Bosie introduces Oscar to his father, the Marquess of Queensberry, at lunch in the Cafe Royal. Bosie edits and writes for The Spirit Lamp.

1893

The infamous "prose poem" (reprinted below) is written by Oscar Wilde and sent to Lord Alfred. It is later translated to the French in sonnet form and published

1894

Queensberry threatens to disown Bosie, his own son, unless he ceases his association with Wilde.

1895

Bosie's father, The Marquess of Queensberry sends a card to Wilde at the Albemarle Club, accusing Wilde of "posing as a somdomite" (sic). The subsequent legal actions result in a two-year prison sentence for Wilde, at hard labor.

1897

Wilde writes De Profundis, a long letter to Bosie which is not received by Lord Alfred. Oscar is released from prison; Bosie meets him in Naples, Italy on September 4th.

1900

Wilde dies on November 30th. Bosie is chief mourner and pays funeral expenses.

1901

Bosie writes one of his most moving and finely written sonnets, The Dead Poet.

1902

Bosie marries Olive Custance on March 4th and their only child, Raymond Wilfrid Sholto Douglas is born on November 17th.

Bosie in middle age, with companion
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1945

Bosie dies of congestive heart failure on Wedneday, March 20th at the age of 74. He was buried at Worth Abbey, the Franciscan Montastery located in Turners Hill, Crawley, West Sussex on Friday, March 23rd. He is interred alongside his mother, one gravestone covers them both.

(from http://www.geocities.com/starparty1/bosie/)

Letter to Lord Alfred Douglas

January 1893

My Own Boy, Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those rose-leaf lips of yours should have been made no less for music of song than for madness of kisses. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place--it only lacks you; but go to Salisbury first. Always, with undying love,

Yours, Oscar

The New Remorse
Oscar Wilde, 1891
(written for Lord Alfred Douglas)


The Sin was mine; I did not understand.
So now is music prisoned in her cave,
Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
That hardley can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.
But who is this who cometh by the shore?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this
Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?
It is they new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,
And I shall weep and worship, as before.

Bosie and Oscar together again in Naples, Italy following Oscar's release from prison.

Letter to Lord Alfred Douglas
July 1897

"I feel that my only hope of again doing beautiful work in art is being with you. Everyone is furious with me for going back to you, but they don't understand us. I feel that it is only with you that I can do anything at all. Do remake my ruined life for me, and then our friendship and love will have a different meaning to the world."

- Oscar Wilde
(following his release from prison)



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 he was dead.

-Lord Alfred Douglas
(written about Oscar Wilde the year after his death)