Keats and Fanny Brawne

He tried to pour the torrents of his love Into a tiny vase; a trinket—smooth, Pretty enough—but fit to hold a rose Upon some shrewd collector’s cabinet. Toward that small moon the wild tides of his love Reared up, and fell back, moaning; and he died Asking his heart why love was agony. And she? She loved the best she could, I think, And wondered sometimes—but not overmuch— At poor John’s queer, unseemly violence.