Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/181
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TO JOSEPH SEVERNFor the Centenary of Keat's Death, 23 February, 1921
We who loved Keats will never long forget
Your memory, Severn: how your hand could trace
With tenderest art his dream-enshrouded face;
Could mould that moonlight-haunted brow, where met,
As in a fane on some Greek island set,
The beauty that transcends all time and place,
And the more winsome, earth-begotten grace
Of altar-flowers with limpid dew-drops wet.
Your memory, Severn: how your hand could trace
With tenderest art his dream-enshrouded face;
Could mould that moonlight-haunted brow, where met,
As in a fane on some Greek island set,
The beauty that transcends all time and place,
And the more winsome, earth-begotten grace
Of altar-flowers with limpid dew-drops wet.
But what you gave to Keats the man, your friend,
Has bound your name to his with dearer ties.
You soothed and shared his anguish at the end;
You heard the last cry of those passionate lips;
You last beheld those wonder-seeing eyes;
And watched the soul win free from Time's eclipse.
Has bound your name to his with dearer ties.
You soothed and shared his anguish at the end;
You heard the last cry of those passionate lips;
You last beheld those wonder-seeing eyes;
And watched the soul win free from Time's eclipse.
The FreemanCharles Wharton Stork
THE ODD ONES
I like best those crotchety ones
That follow their own way
In whimsical oblivion
Of what the neighbors say.
That follow their own way
In whimsical oblivion
Of what the neighbors say.
They grow more rare as they grow old,
Their lives show in their faces—
In little slants and twisted lines;
Like trees in lonely places.
Their lives show in their faces—
In little slants and twisted lines;
Like trees in lonely places.
Poetry, A Magazine of VerseRuth Suckow
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