Less Taken With An Ode
Keats wrote an ode about an urn;
I read to see what I could learn.
Ah, happy, happy, here and there!
More happy, happy, everywhere!
But not much else could I discern;
Like Greek to me, its beauty, lost.
'Tis said to Keats that much is owed,
Ekphrastic images that flowed.
Long cent'ries since, high praise still earned,
Yet reading Keats, I found I yearned
For yellow wood, divergent roads,
Trips taken through an early Frost.
Copyright © Jeff Kyser | Year Posted 2022
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