When we think of the name Douglas in connection with Oscar Wilde we usually have in mind Oscar’s golden lover-Boy of that ilk—we do not necessarily conjure up visions of the rugged American screen legend, Kirk Douglas.
But today there are two reasons why we should.
First, it is actor Kirk‘s 100th birthday; so congratulations to him.
Second, we need to turn to Kirk because our theme is self-sacrifice, and it’s difficult to imagine the lordly Alfred, that over-privileged lily of lilies, in that role never mind imagining him as an enslaved gladiator—which we need to do as therein lies our story.
The above appraisal is from a recent edition of the U.S. version of Antiques Roadshow, and features a manuscript sonnet by Oscar Wilde which has recently come to light.
While it is a newly discovered manuscript, it is not a newly discovered poem. It is one from the Wilde canon which he retitled as Ideal Love andpresented with a dedication to an acquaintance named Christian Gauss, a young American journalist.
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 hardly can the silver willow crave One little 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 thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss The yet unravished roses of thy mouth, And I shall weep and worship, as before. 
For scholarly analyses of Oscar Wilde’s life and work subscribe to The Wildean, the journal the Oscar Wilde Society.