(To Fanny, on the death of our mutual friend John Keats)
What steadfast equilibrium
Can border vastness of grief?
Nothing ever becomes as real
Till it be experience.
Life’s fragile day is done for Keats
Imagination his belief
His Monastry, he its Monk
Beauty’s spell, fervent relief.
He died in Rome mourned by so few
Bright star, by none more than you
He hears your tender-taken breath
Ever feels soft fall and swell.
If warm, wind plucked purest harp
Words from tranquillity have sprung
Then Nature’s might and awe arouse
World’s sheer grandeur will be sung
Yet will black shadows cross the land
Swarming clouds of Erinyes
Snatching this poet young and sweet
More mortal than his poetry.
In the style of Horace Odes Book I . XXIV