Keats

By Erasmus H. Brodie

(Died Feb. 23, 1821)

RARE voice, the last from vernal Heilas sent,

And fresh Arcadian hills, why mute so soon?

Did the Gods grudge their unexpected boon,

And Phoebus envy back the lute he lent?

So sudden came thy song, so sudden went!

O well for thee—free of life’s fiery noon,

Free as a fairy underneath the moon,

But ill for us bereft of ravishment.

Not for our skies, piper of Grecian breed,

Nor suits our autumn melody with spring’s;

So hast thou fled on bright ethereal steed

With all thy young and rich imaginings

To be great-hearted Homer’s Ganymede,

Nor dropped one feather of thy shining wings.