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The Poetry of Real Life

A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison
 

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TO KEATS.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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TO KEATS.

Thou art the truest poet, Keats, for thou
Sing'st but for love, not guerdon: even as
The lark in morning's ear, whose music was,
And is, and ever will be, still as now,
Unconscious of an effort, as the bough
Is of its perfume—but the world doth pass
Such by: 'tis hard of hearing, and, alas!
Harder of heart, and takes no count of how
A poet lives and dies, till he be gone;
Still, when he asks for bread, it “gives a stone!”
And accurate biographers search out
His life's least details, when his name has grown
A word of power, and a light about
It gathered, that attends not a King's throne!