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On Keats,1849

A garden in a garden: a green spot

Where all is green: most fitting slumber-place

For the strong man grown weary of a race

Soon over. Unto him a goodly lot

Hath fallen in fertile ground; there thorns are not,

But his own daisies: silence,full of grace,

Surely hath shed a quiet on his face:

His earth is but sweet leaves that fall and rot.

What was his record of himself, ere he

Went from us? Here lies one whose name was

writ

In water: while the chilly shadows flit

Of sweet Saint Agnes’ Eve, while basil springs,

His name, in every humble heart that sings,

Shall be a fountain of love, verily.

imm022

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2 Comments

    • Gunslinger Poet
    • Posted December 4, 2012 at 8:32 pm
    • Permalink

    i remember when Keats taught me what a “bower” was.

  1. che meraviglioso


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