University of Virginia Library

HYACINTH.

For Keats, O Hyacinthus, thus dost show
Thy sumptuous curling bells of crispèd snow,
Ingrainèd pure as snow's first feathering,
Or dyèd like the richness of Night's wing,
Or sapphire morn, or roseate even-bloom,
And loaden down with luscious perfume.
Were but thine old inscription legible
'Twould suit our modern loss too sadly well.