Keats, and Kirk White, David Gray and the rest of you
Heavened and blest of you young singers gone,—
Slender in sooth though the theme unexpressed of you,
Leave us this like of you yet to sing on!
Let your Muse mother him and your souls brother him,
Even as now, or in fancy, you do:
Still let him sing to us ever, and bring to us
Musical musings of glory and—you.
Never a note to do evil or wrong to us—
Beauty of melody—beauty of words,—
Sweet and yet strong to us comes his young song to us
Rippled along to us clear as the bird's.
No fame elating him falsely, nor sating him—
Feasting and feting him faint of her joys,
But singing on where the laurels are waiting him,
Young yet in art, and his heart yet a boy's.