AN INSCRIPTION IN ROME
(PIAZZA DI SPAGNA)
Something there is in Death not all unkind;
He hath a gentler aspect, looking back;
For flowers may bloom in the dread thunder's track,
And even the cloud that struck with light was lined.
Thus, when the heart is silent, speaks the mind;
But there are moments when comes rushing, black
And fierce upon us, the old, awful lack,
And Death once more is cruel, senseless, blind.
So when I saw beside a Roman portal
"In this house died John Keats"—for tears that sprung
I could no further read. O bard immortal!
Not for thy fame's sake—but so young, so young;
Such beauty vanished; spilled such heavenly wine;
All quenched that power of deathless song divine!
DESECRATION
The poet died last night;
Outworn his mortal frame.
He hath fought well the fight,
And won a deathless name.
Bring laurel for his bier,
And flowers to deck the hearse.
The tribute of a tear
To his immortal verse.
Husht is that piercing strain—
Who heard, for pleasure wept.
His were our joy and pain;
He sang—our sorrow slept.
