Keats: Shelley

THE melancholy gift Aurora gained
From heaven, that her lover should not see
The face of death, no goddess asked for thee,
My Keats! But when the crimson blood-drop stained
Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained, —
Brief life, wild love, a glorious flight of poesy!
And then, — a shadow fell on Italy;
Thy star went down before its brightness waned.

Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed:
Never to feel the pain of growing old,
Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty’s truth,
But with the ardent lips that music kissed
To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew cold,
Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.

Knight-errant of the Never-ending Quest,
And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire;
Forever tuning thy sweet earthly lyre
To some unearthly music, and possessed
With painful passionate longing to invest
The golden dream of Love’s ethereal fire
In garments of terrestrial attire,
And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!

What wonder, Shelley, if the restless wave
Should whelm thy life, the leaping flames consume
Thy mortal form on Viareggio’s beach ?
These were thine elements, thy fitting grave!
But still thy soul rides on with fiery plume;
Thy wild song rings in ocean’s yearning speech.