The Grave of Keats (Lowell)

by Maria White Lowell

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
    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 bushes and their swells,
Where myriad leaves in forest dim
    Build up their cloudy citadels.

No mystic-signaled passion-flowers
    Spread their flat discs, while buds more fair
Swing like great bells, in frail green towers
    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!

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.