 | The pink book |  |
31
TO JOHN KEATS.
A harp of fifty silvern, murmurous strings,
A woodland full of wild-bird minstrelsy,
A sadness chaunted by a lonely sea,
A void through which at intervals there rings
The bell-voiced soul of all melodious things,
A hidden temple, vast and shadowy,
Where 'mid the dimness floating faerily,
The sweetest song wanders on tireless wings!
A woodland full of wild-bird minstrelsy,
A sadness chaunted by a lonely sea,
A void through which at intervals there rings
The bell-voiced soul of all melodious things,
A hidden temple, vast and shadowy,
Where 'mid the dimness floating faerily,
The sweetest song wanders on tireless wings!
Such was thy spirit, poet, and though thou'rt dead
And thy life's sun might never reach its height,
In thee, whilst still he kept the rosy east,
Beauty and panting love did kiss and wed,
And thou hast echoed with a rapt delight
The wondrous music of their marriage feast.
And thy life's sun might never reach its height,
In thee, whilst still he kept the rosy east,
Beauty and panting love did kiss and wed,
And thou hast echoed with a rapt delight
The wondrous music of their marriage feast.
| The pink book | |