On Missing the Talented Young John Keats
My friend, so young your countenance remains
When word’s cold death exacted Britain’s pain
In one brief moment quill caressed page,
papyrus breathed to life, precocious sage.
When first I gazed upon your stanzas long
mesmerizing trance from an angelic song.
A thing of beauty is the ink once spilled
in Eton’s courtyard ‘ere long days were filled.
Unending dream of dear Endymion’s sleep
imbued my soul in verses piercing deep.
Bright stars like flowers and far-off Ganymede,
ethereal seems real as what was real recedes
and tides of dusk creep slow upon night’s shore.
I, upmounted by your winged fancies flew,
a star-filled flight among the heavens new,
and silvery moon, which never burnt so bright
upon the shimmering waters of this night.
From Latmos’ Isle no stranger urges birthed
into mythic worlds of gods and fairies’ mirth.
When lore and love released their final breath
the heavens dimmed, as if to honor death
and stillness hung thick in English moors,
despair lurked yet close behind dread’s doors.
How long endured the object of your gaze
Fair Brawne, whose aura obsessed days,
did she, as we who grieve now centuries past
shed tear on tear, romance of Autumn last?
Having tasted, what remains on earth to weep?
For those who love, your beauty never sleeps.
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