| |
| BUT one rude stone for him whose song | |
| Revived the Grecian’s plastic ease, | |
| Till men and maidens danced along | |
| In youth perpetual on his frieze! | |
| |
| Where lies that mould of senses fine | 5 |
| Men knew as Keats awhile ago, | |
| We cannot trace a single sign | |
| Of all that made his joy below. | |
| |
| There are no trees to talk of him | |
| Who knew their hushes and their swells, | 10 |
| Where myriad leaves in forest dim | |
| Build up their cloudy citadels. | |
| |
| No mystic-signalled passion-flowers | |
| Spread their flat discs, while buds more fair | |
| Swing like great bells, in frail green towers, | 15 |
| To toll away the summer air. | |
| |
| O Mother Earth! thy sides he bound | |
| With far-off Venus’ warmer zone, | |
| With statelier sons thy landscape crowned, | |
| Whose chiming voices matched thine own! | 20 |
| |
| O Mother Earth, what hast thou brought | |
| This tender frame that loved thee well? | |
| Harsh grass and weeds alone are wrought | |
| On his low grave’s uneven swell. | |
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