THE GRAVE OF KEATS

Where silver swathes of newly fallen hay Fling up their incense to the Roman sun; Where violets spread their dusky leaves and run In a dim ripple, and a glittering bay Lifts overhead his living wreath; where day Burns fierce upon his endless night and none Can whisper to him of the thing he won, Love-starved young Keats hath cast his gift of clay. And still the little marble makes a moan Under the scented shade; one nightingale With many a meek and mourning monotone Throbs of his sorrow; sings how oft men fail And leave their dearest light-bringers alone To shine unseen, and all unfriended pale.

Oh, leave the lyre upon his humble stone, The rest erase; if Keats were come again, The quickest he to blot this cry of pain, The first to take a sorrowing world’s atone. ’Tis not the high magistral way to moan When a mean present leaps and sweeps amain Athwart the prophets’ vision; not one groan Escapes their souls, and lingers not one strain. They answer to their ideals; their good Outshines all flare and glare of futile marts. They stand beside their altars while the flood Ephemeral rolls on and roars and parts. It shall not chill a poet’s golden blood; It cannot drown the masters’ mighty hearts.