Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/35
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
He did not die nigh to the Spanish stairs
In drowsing Rome, even if his dust is hid
Under her violets, his last despairs
At rest beside the Cestian pyramid.
That valiant spirit wherein all beauty quivered
Outlives forever the failing brain and heart
Consumed by love when lightning many-rivered
Descended on the altar of his art.
In drowsing Rome, even if his dust is hid
Under her violets, his last despairs
At rest beside the Cestian pyramid.
That valiant spirit wherein all beauty quivered
Outlives forever the failing brain and heart
Consumed by love when lightning many-rivered
Descended on the altar of his art.
And summer's wind that runs the rippling barley
(Watched by his hazel eyes with such delight),
Bees on the foxglove bloom in buzzing parley,
The flickering shadow of a swallow's flight,
Hold him more closely now than all his glories
Of marbled myth, all that our world esteems
Of jewelled language in those enchanted stories
He wove on purple tapestry of dreams.
(Watched by his hazel eyes with such delight),
Bees on the foxglove bloom in buzzing parley,
The flickering shadow of a swallow's flight,
Hold him more closely now than all his glories
Of marbled myth, all that our world esteems
Of jewelled language in those enchanted stories
He wove on purple tapestry of dreams.
Now he exults in all the secret raptures
Of earth, all color and fragrance near or far,—
Flows through the flaming sunset, storms and captures
The throbbing, luminous heart of every star.
The flowers, the clouds, the birds are his in keeping.
They brighten beneath that swift and viewless wing.
His is all summer's shining, all autumn's weeping,
All the wild virginal ardor of the spring.
Of earth, all color and fragrance near or far,—
Flows through the flaming sunset, storms and captures
The throbbing, luminous heart of every star.
The flowers, the clouds, the birds are his in keeping.
They brighten beneath that swift and viewless wing.
His is all summer's shining, all autumn's weeping,
All the wild virginal ardor of the spring.
The Literary ReviewWilliam Rose Benét
N. Y. Evening Post
N. Y. Evening Post
20
This poem in commemoration of the Centenary of John Keats was read before the Authors' Club of New York on Thursday, February 24.