Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
XXIV. Bitter Sorrow
To Chatterton
By John Keats (1795–1821)
O CHATTERTON! how very sad thy fate!
  Dear child of sorrow—son of misery!
  How soon the film of death obscur’d that eye,
Whence Genius mildly flash’d, and high debate.
How soon that voice, majestic and elate,        5
  Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh
  Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die
A half-blown flow’ret which cold blasts amate.
But this is past: thou art among the stars
  Of highest Heaven: to the rolling spheres        10
Thou sweetly singest: naught thy hymning mars,
  Above the ingrate world and human fears.
On earth the good man base detraction bars
  From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.

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